Draco's Bad Day
by Maloreiy
Summary: Draco is having a bad day. In fact, every day is a bad day because he's been trying (unsuccessfully) to convince himself he's not in love with Hermione Granger, who is engaged to Ron (the prat) Weasley. Except that all of a sudden she's not. And Draco's about to have more good and bad days than he had ever expected. WIP. Cover Art by Freya Ishtar. S&R: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day. Not that all of his days weren't routinely within the spectrum of unenjoyable, but what had started out on a normal level of disagreeableness quickly degraded into full-fledged lousiness.

He knew he was behind on his paperwork. Even with magical means, it somehow seemed a never-ending task to correctly fill out the lengthy forms and reports and file them with the appropriate departments. The red tape of the Ministry's bureaucracy never failed to bring out his well-known sneer of disgust. To then have to spend several hours of his morning listening to the self-important drone of one of the Minister's pets on the importance of "timely fulfilling responsibilities" only served to make his wand-fingers twitch to cast an obnoxious (but not illegal, and certainly not Dark) spell on the sanctimonious twit.

After finally extricating himself from the unwanted and interminable lecture, he unfortunately ended up in a department meeting for Aurors where he had to listen to one of Potter's ("Potter.") famous spontaneous pep talks designed to motivate the masses and inspire them to higher levels of efficiency. Because it's not enough to save the entire Wizarding world once, he must needs do it over and over again. And like chumps, they all ate it up. Every time.

Draco was a good Auror. A fantastic one, in fact, if the truth be known. But after several years of going through his partners like a particularly bad box of Every Flavor Beans, he found himself the only Auror approved to operate solo and as such, ended up with some of the trickiest assignments for a single person, and of course, had to handle all of the resultant paperwork entirely by himself.

At one point he'd hired a secretary to do the work for him, and she was quite good at her job, as well as being rather easy on the eyes. But Potter forced him to get rid of her, stating that if he wanted someone to do paperwork with that badly, he could jolly well manage to keep a partner for more than a week.

So no secretary. Loads of paperwork. Having to listen to Potter and pretend he was excited for another year of thankless risk-taking. And then, AND THEN, the Minister of Magic, thinking (correctly, actually) that Draco was planning on skipping out on yet another Ministry Ball, had the gall to stop him in the halls and inform him in no uncertain tones that his presence would be required that evening.

And to top it all off, he even implied that Draco needed to take extra care to dress appropriately. Just remembering the unwarranted comment had Draco's lip lifting in a sneer. As if a Malfoy ever needed to be told to dress appropriately for any occasion, let alone a ball.

He twitched the sleeves of his black dress robes—made of the most expensive unicorn silk and tailored perfectly to fit to his form in the most flattering of ways—as he reached for the glass of Firewhiskey. He pointedly avoided looking at the well-dressed couple that had just entered the room, knowing that as always, all eyes were drawn to watch them approach.

They were the Wizarding World's Golden Couple (confusing when you consider they are both also part of the Golden Trio, but once you go gold, apparently there's not much better you can compare to), war heroes gracing the cover of every magazine because of their storybook romance, begun in the innocence of childhood, tested in the fire of warfare, and now basking in the glow of happily ever after.

Draco snorted at his glass of firewhiskey, still refusing to look their direction.

She was the reason this day had just dropped into the bowels of Bad Day hell. He tried to avoid seeing her whenever possible. Not to where he'd cut her in the hallways, but to where if he knew she was walking down the hall, he might just casually take a different route or find another errand he had to run in a different area that would prevent them from crossing paths.

When he had first joined the Auror program, after his exile and probationary period, he was not greeted warmly. There were many who still believed he was working for the Dark Side, and even those who didn't, were unable to forgive his actions (or sometimes lack thereof) in the war. There were few who wanted to be his partner, and even fewer who wanted to be his friend.

Draco Malfoy had never had any real friends (minions really don't count), so he didn't feel the lack too much.

But then She had begun talking to him.

Hermione Granger, war heroine, brightest witch of the age, and apparently a trendsetter. When coming to visit Ron Weasley for lunch, or on routine daily errands in the Ministry, she often casually made it a point to stop by Draco's desk. At first her off-hand remarks and greetings were met with stony silence.

Frankly, it was the best Draco could do, since the first things to come to his mind were both unkind, and illegal in the current government. And though he no longer believed in the words with the fervor of his youth (sometimes he wondered if he ever truly believed them, actually), he knew that saying them aloud would undo all of the hard work he had gone through to make himself accepted in present Wizarding society.

But Granger, probably because she was the brightest witch of the age, found a couple of topics that couldn't help but pull out a response from him, and before long he found himself having conversations with at least one of the Golden Trio. Usually on academic topics that had interested them both in school, politics, the benefits and consequences of borderline grey spells (this after a particularly lengthy investigation into Draco's use of one of those same spells, an investigation of which he was acquitted with honor, by the way). She never talked about their less than amicable past, and she never talked to him as if he was still connected with it. He found the lack of bitterness refreshing. He found her company refreshing.

It wasn't surprising when he soon found himself engaging in the occasional conversation with both Potter and Weasley. Mostly Potter, who went out of his way to preach about the new Wizarding society having room for all witches and wizards, regardless of birth (which somehow backwardly applied to Draco also), and so probably felt a duty to converse with him. Weasley was not much for words, and was content to glare at him, a feeling which Draco shared but never showed, because unlike the ill-bred Weasel he at least attempted to show respect for the company he was in by not glowering at people in public.

A lesson hard learned, really, when you consider his history. Glowering does not make you friends. Or win you wars.

It had been on the heels of another awful day, actually, when he had come face to face with the terrible truth that now haunted him on evenings like this one, with a Firewhiskey in his hand, and somewhere behind him a beaming Hermione Granger on the arm of a doting Ron Weasley.

He'd just spent the day sorting out the awful mess left behind by his most recent ex-partner, alternately cursing in rage and kicking his wastebasket. He was ready to go home, and was literally just about to gather his things and exit when Granger walked in. She took one look at his desk, the empty chair opposite his, and his scowl, and her expression broke into a commiserating smile.

"That bad?" and she'd looked a little amused as she said it.

To this day he didn't know what made him do it, but his mouth opened, and he let loose a descriptive stream of frustration and anger as if they were truly friends. He supposed that's what she'd been intending all along, but he had never considered any of them as more than casual work acquaintances. Until that moment, it seemed.

He would never forget, could never forget, that moment when she'd stepped to him and touched his arm—a gesture so casual she must frequently use it when comforting others, but not with him, never before with him. When she looked up at him, her expression so sincere, he was momentarily lost in the depths of those warm, chocolate eyes. He felt something foreign in the vicinity of the heart that no one believed he still had. It was warm and bright and powerful, and later, when he could finally put a word to it, he would think of it as a yearning.

All he knew at the time was that the touch on his arm seemed to sear his skin, and the smell of her hair closer than it had ever been caused his stomach to flutter, and his muscles to tense, and his breath to clog up in his throat.

He almost missed what she said, so caught up in the overwhelming sensations of her presence.

"You need an equal, Malfoy. I'm sorry to say you might never find it in the department as it is. Sometimes when you outshine others, you have to work alone to do your best work. Others will just slow you down." And then she'd smiled at him, grinning like they shared a joke, and against his will, without any thought, actually, he smiled back down at her.

He didn't know it at the time, but that was actually the last partner he'd rage over. He refused all later offers and assignments to partners, insisting on working alone, until Potter finally approved it.

But that night he'd gone home to his "flat" in Wizarding London (if you could call the mansion-sized apartment loft a flat), and the thought struck him that he'd had a good day that day. Confused, since he distinctly remembered having an awful day, he thought back to why he could possibly feel rather light and happy.

When it hit him, he actually dropped the bottle of Firewhiskey onto the kitchen tiles, the sinking, tearing sensation in the vicinity of that same heart no one believed he had making the room seem claustrophobic all of a sudden. When he could breathe again, he cursed fluidly for several minutes. He didn't even bother with cleaning up the mess of Firewhiskey on the floor, he simply grabbed another bottle and spent the next several hours in a state of inebriation that still couldn't eradicate the feel of her hand on his arm.

For several weeks, he thought he could just ignore it, or at least pretend like it didn't exist. He had the same short conversations with Granger when she would swing by the Aurors' offices, and he didn't change any part of his routine. But then he noticed himself waiting for her to stop by, and then watching her as she left. He felt absurd streaks of triumph if he could get her to laugh, sometimes even going so far as to tease her a tiny bit.

And then one day she walked towards his desk, a big smile on her face, and that yearning that he felt whenever she smiled at him, grew so strong and wrapped around him so tight, it threatened to choke him. His fingers twitched with the effort of keeping him from reaching out. His stomach was so twisted into knots, he didn't even trust himself to speak. She didn't notice because she was excited about the promotion she'd just been told she would be receiving. She felt that finally all of her hard work was being recognized, and in her excitement and nervousness she never noticed Draco's hands clamped on the arms of his chair, his eyes dark with the desire to be the one with the right to scoop her up in a hug, and then plant an enthusiastic kiss on her smiling mouth—the way Ron Weasley did when he came up to congratulate her on the news.

Somehow, and he'd never figured out how, he managed a smile, and a "Congratulations, you deserve it" before she was whisked away to raucous cheering.

And when everyone had left, Draco remained seated in his chair. He dropped his head onto his desk, and cursed again. Not loudly. Not expansively. But quietly, and with feeling.

That was over a year ago. And in that time, Draco had been very careful to treat her with the utmost courtesy during those times that he was forced into her company. Being assigned his own office meant he rarely had to see her traipsing casually through the Aurors' floor. He might go days or even weeks without seeing those cinnamon curls, and he would begin to delude himself into believing that it didn't matter anymore, and it was just a ridiculous notion he'd taken into his head one drunk night.

But then he would see her in the hall, or at a meeting, and his heart would beat so hard he was sure she could hear it, and he wanted to run before she looked up and read his feelings in his eyes. He could never have her. And he could never, ever, ever let on to anyone that he wanted her. There was no forgiveness large enough for the sin of Death Eater Draco Malfoy coveting Golden Girl Hermione Granger, future wife of the beloved Ron Weasley. The only sin bigger would be coveting Harry Potter's wife, Ginny Weasley-Potter, a possibility that thankfully was as remote as him marrying a house-elf.

As he sourly repeated his mantra that Death Eaters did not desire Mudbloods (silently, of course, where no one could hear the self-loathing), he downed his glass of Firewhiskey, knowing that being unable to avoid the Ball meant he would be facing Hermione Granger at least once this night. Because if he knew her, and he liked to think that he certainly knew her better than that joke of a fiancé, she would make it a point to come up to him.

He briefly thought about changing locations throughout the night, making it hard to pin him down, but quickly gave up the idea, knowing that if Granger wanted to find him, she would.

It was halfway through the night, and Draco was all the way towards drunk, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and she sat down on the chair beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Malfoy," she said, by way of greeting. She was wearing a stunning dress of gold (of course), that shimmered in the low lighting of the magical crystal chandeliers, and he deliberately refused to notice that when she sat the slit in the side revealed the slightest peek of her thigh.

"Granger," he acknowledged, his voice husky with firewhiskey and the trembles that danced through his body whenever she was near. He looked in her direction but didn't quite look at her, being too busy with trying to ignore whatever scent she was wearing that seemed to want to slide under his skin.

She smiled a half-smile and said, "It's been a while," to try to break the ice. But Draco was having none of it, and just sort of nodded abruptly, not finding it in himself to be directly rude. Not to her, who was regularly the only person who was ever genuinely nice to him.

After ordering a drink, she let out a sigh. "Malfoy—" she began, before he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"I know, Granger."

Surprised, but not offended by his taciturn ways, she raised one eyebrow and asked, "You do, do you?"

Picking up his empty glass and looking into it as if more firewhiskey were going to magically appear inside (which it might, you never know), he stated with authority, "You're going to thank me for saving Weasley's life. Which is a part of my job. And which I did." And he added, with only the slightest hint of bitterness, "Because I'm good at my job."

His firewhiskey glass did not magically refill, but another glass magically appeared in front of him, so he figured that was just as good, and he began to work at making it look just as empty as its twin.

From Granger there was a brief silence, followed by quiet words. "That's not the way I heard it, Malfoy." More silence. "I heard that Ron could not be saved. That you went against orders, fended off three dark wizards at once, and hurled him to safety when the bomb went off. And the only reason you made it out was the Patronus you cast before you collapsed was one of the brightest witnessed on the field."

Draco toyed with his now-empty glass and said ruefully, "Sounds like you should be writing my reports for me."

There was a tsking sound from Granger that caused him to look up, immediately regretting the choice as her eyes stared straight into him making him wonder if the burning in his throat was actually from the firewhiskey. He quickly looked back down, shaking his head briefly.

"Malfoy, it was no little thing," she said, thinking he meant to shake off his heroic actions. She delicately sipped from her drink, and then tapped her fingers on the countertop, choosing her words carefully. "I know that the Department will thank you. And I know that even Ron might speak to you after this." She smiled a little smile at her joke, the smile fading quickly as she saw he didn't respond. "But I just wanted you to know that I see you, for who you are, and I thank you. For your bravery every day. But for that day, especially, I thank you."

Draco set his glass down, gently, trying to calm the maelstrom of feelings that swirled inside him at her words. Knowing she expected some sort of response, he just sighed, and said, "I know, Granger." He chanced a quick glance at her, before looking back down at his empty glasses, knowing and hating that she understood him well enough to hear that her words truly affected him.

Of course, she didn't know—couldn't know—that when he went after Weasley single-mindedly, jeopardizing his Auror career and his life in one fool-hardy sweep, that all he could think about was that Granger was waiting somewhere for Weasley to come home, and he could never, ever look at her again if he didn't find a way to make that happen.

And when he thought he was dead, it was the thought of her hand on his arm, the thought of her face tilted up towards his, that allowed him to conjure a Patronus shield for the first time, in a last desperate attempt to save himself.

So her words and her thanks cut into him, driving his self-loathing, in a way she could never understand. He saved Ron Weasley because he was in love with his girl. Pathetic.

As she walked away, carrying her drink, he wondered if it was possible this day could get any worse.

It was well on towards midnight when Draco went on a mission to find the loo. Some quack kept changing its location as the ballroom underwent constant construction. Sometimes it had a bright sign pointing right at it, and sometimes it was hidden away in a tiny, dark corner as if using the loo were a disgraceful, inhuman act.

Since the obvious locations did not yield the appropriate results, Draco was currently betting on the dark corners of the excessively decorated woodsy theme, figuring that even if he was unsuccessful a tree might do just as well.

It was in one such dark corner that he stumbled upon an amorous couple in a heated embrace. He should have been alerted by the faint scuffling sounds that he had not found the loo, but being a tad too drunk, and more than a tad too obsessed with self-recriminating thoughts, he didn't notice until he had literally bumped into them.

Wands were pulled on instinct, the couple grappling furiously at loose clothing, and in the faint wandlight, he was so surprised at what he saw that he temporarily forgot to remain silent, and blurted out, "Weasley?"

It was the Weasel all right. His messy hair was standing out every which way and he had lipstick all over his face. The thought passed fleetingly through Draco's mind that Hermione never wore that much lipstick, when it finally clicked in his mind that the female huddled against Ron, her face turned away from the wandlight, was not wearing a gold dress that sparkled in the light. And she didn't have cinnamon colored curls that smelled like heaven.

And in that moment Draco Malfoy felt a burning anger and disgust such as he had never felt in his life. Despite the alcohol in his bloodstream, every one of his senses were on alert, as if for battle, his wand hand ready to let fly the darkest of curses, if necessary.

"Weasley," he ground out, tones laced with an acrid loathing, this time not a question, but a confirmation.

Ron grinned sheepishly, and said, "Just a bit of fun, mate," by way of an excuse. His attempt at lightening the mood only caused Draco to glare at him more stonily, prompting Ron, ever the bumbler, to elaborate more fully. "Near-death experience, and all." As Draco's eyes narrowed, Ron blurted a hasty, "Thanks for the save, by the way."

The girl in the lavender dress made a small, distressed, whimpering sound, her body still rigid, afraid to turn around. Draco growled a low, "You're despicable, Weasley."

Ron responded with a look of hurt, "Now, Dra—Malfoy," he quickly corrected at Draco's look, "a man's just been through a crazy experience, and sometimes just needs to," his eyes darted towards the girl still clutched in his arms, "blow off some steam," he finished lamely. "Yeah?"

Draco lowered his wand to his side, vibrating with unreleased anger, the desire to use his fists to smash the look off Weasley's face the most prominent thought in his head.

Then Ron made the mistake of haltingly asking, "You—you won't tell Hermione, will you?"

With lightning fast reflexes, Draco hexed him, slashing him across the cheek, through the smears of lipstick, leaving a tiny thin line of blood. Ron didn't retaliate; he just stared at Draco in shock.

The hex felt good, but couldn't be nearly enough to soothe the rage he was feeling. With his wand pointed at Ron's throat, he took a few deep breaths, no doubt causing Ron to wonder if he would Avada him. But all he said was, "It's none of my business."

Before Ron could exhale in relief, though, Draco continued, "But Hermione's not stupid. She's the brightest witch of the age, and will eventually figure out what I have always known…that you are just a Weasel," this last word spat with as much contempt as Draco could muster. "She doesn't need me to tell her."

And just as Draco was thinking this was absolutely the worst night of his life, and he was going to need a lot more firewhiskeys, he heard a soft, quavering voice behind him.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Malfoy. But, clearly I'm not the brightest witch of the age, am I?"

Since his eyes were still trained on Weasley's face, he saw the look of surprise and fear that crossed it. He didn't need to look behind him to know she was there, beautiful in her gold dress, a look of profound hurt on her face. He could hear the tears in her voice. And if the rage he felt before was blinding, he was now like the sun ready to explode with massive destruction.

He yelled loudly in frustration, a roar of helplessness and uncertainty, causing the girl to whimper louder and clutch at Ron.

And in the echoing silence after, Draco whispered, "Petrificus Totalus."

Then he said, "They're all yours," over his shoulder, and without looking at Her, he walked away, quest for the loo forgotten. He ignored the questioning glances and the excited chatter, and when he exited the building, he promptly Apparated to his flat where his newfound sobriety was fought back glass by glass.

A/N: Sorry about the last chapter and the formatting stuff, you guys. After I had loaded it last night, it all looked fine. But clearly something went wrong in the copy/paste department. I fixed the last chapter, and posted this next one for you guys just to make up for it. :-) I am hoping to post a new chapter probably every week. This story is half written already, with the rest outlined, and I'm expecting probably about 25 chapters. And thanks so much for the reviews!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was more than a month before he saw her again. Like the rest of the world, he was aware of the unfolding story of the breakup of Weasley and Granger, sensationalized though it was in the pages of Witch Weekly and the tawdry magazines. The picture Granger had arranged to appear in the front pages the day after the Ministry Ball showed a fearful Ron Weasley coming out of the Petrificus Totalus spell, incriminating evidence still on his face (and clinging to his side). Undeniably embarrassing for the whole Weasley family (other pictures included a very pregnant Ginny Potter being restrained by her husband from launching herself in anger at her youngest brother), the picture ensured that there would not be a reconciliation.

In the ensuing stories, it became more and more clear that Ron Weasley was not the good guy everyone thought he was, but was, in fact, the Weasel that Draco had always believed he was. He didn't know how many of the girls who claimed to have slept with the Weasel actually had, but he did know that the one in the lavender dress (conveniently named Lavender, so he wouldn't forget, and who was apparently one of his old classmates) did not hold anything back when claiming her new place at the side of Ron (Won-Won) Weasley.

To the credit of even the bloodthirsty journalists, none of the stories were sympathetic towards the Weasel. Wizarding society may have loved Ron Weasley, but they clearly loved Hermione Granger more (a sentiment of which Draco wholeheartedly approved of). It helped that Harry Potter was quoted as coming out unequivocally on Granger's side. No one would dare choose sides against Harry Potter, in light of the fate of the last dark wizard to do so. Except, apparently, Lavender Brown, who was clearly as stupid as her name.

He didn't like how the tabloids painted Granger as a pathetic dupe, though. Her tear-streaked face was always front page news, followed by a pathetic story about how she must have been completely oblivious to Ron's less-than-faithful ways. Whenever he saw those pictures, he felt that same rage he'd felt on that night, with the strongly held belief that those tears ravaging her face were a travesty to all that was good in the world (a category that possibly began and ended with her, anyway). Despite his rage, he devoured all the news, reveling in the condemnation of the Weasel and scouring them for word of what Granger was doing now.

He cheered when he saw she'd moved into a place of her own. He laughed aloud when he saw the picture of her biting the head off of a chocolate frog, holding up a picture of the card with Ron Weasley's face that came inside the package. And when he saw the picture of Ginny and Harry Potter proudly displaying "Baby Jamie" from the maternity ward at St. Mungo's, being held in the arms of proud Auntie Hermione, he softly traced the lines of her face as the magical image of her looked directly at the camera, beaming from ear to ear.

To be fair, there were later pictures of Harry and Ron with his new nephew, but those pictures were sans Hermione, and sans Ginny, and Harry's face always looked strained. Harry and Ron may have been best friends for many years and legendary Auror partners, but what few people truly understood was that Hermione was Harry's only sister, the very closest family he had outside of his wife and new son. Draco knew what few people knew, that when the chips were down, Ron had weakened, and Hermione had never once faltered. Ron was no doubt surprised to discover that Harry's loyalty, while unswerving, could be divided and found in favor of Hermione.

It was yet to be seen what would happen to their Auror partnership. Harry had taken more than the necessary time off for paternity leave, ostensibly to spend as much time as possible with his wife and child, but the whole department was waiting to see if the breakup of Weasley and Granger also meant the breakup of Weasley and Potter.

Draco knew from those same papers that after a short period of time off Hermione Granger was back at work, and busily righting the wrongs of the world by ensuring the rights of all Magical Creatures. But it still took him by surprise when she showed up in his office.

She stood a little awkwardly in the door frame, her hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail. The severity of her black pencil skirt and very proper white blouse would have made her seem stern if it wasn't for the tentative expression on her face. "Malfoy?" she called softly.

The quill in Draco's hand paused in its motion before he slowly looked up at her. He had been caught up in the recollection of events he was reporting on and so his concentration was a little hazy. He recognized her voice, but for a split second he thought he had imagined it. His finely trained Auror senses quickly ruled that out, and he needed the brief pause to collect himself, his heartbeat speeding up as he thought about her presence in his office.

He looked up at her, slowly setting his quill down, but didn't get up from the desk. "Granger." His greeting was neutral, the tone slightly questioning, unsure of what her purpose was. Unsure of what he wanted it to be.

She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, possibly the only curl that dared to escape the confines of her ponytail, a tiny sign of her hesitance. With a quick glance behind her, she stepped inside. "I—I just thought I'd—I wanted to," she started, stammering slightly, clearly nervous.

Draco didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle, and watched her visibly collect herself and stand up a tad straighter. She confidently walked back to the door and shut it softly before walking over to the chair in front of his desk and sitting down. She fiddled with her skirt for a moment before she brought her head up to look at him, his eyes focused on her intently.

She gave him a small, rueful smile. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." The statement was ridiculous, since he was clearly at work, and therefore clearly being disturbed, and he didn't bother answering it because she disturbed him all the time, wherever she was, and there was no good reason to bring that up. "Well, at least not too much," she amended.

She reached over to touch the Golden Snitch that was on display on his desk, her fingers stopping just short of touching it, realizing she was looking for an excuse to keep her hand occupied. When she looked at him with an almost apology for nearly touching his things, he quirked an eyebrow at her, and she gave him a real genuine smile, causing his heart to beat off rhythm for a moment.

"Sorry," she said. "I've just been," and she paused, a shadow passing through her eyes, "out of sorts, lately." She quickly looked down, knowing she was making an understatement. She took a deep breath, before she began, "I just wanted—"

"You'd better not be thanking me for saving Weasley's life again," he interrupted her. "I'm beginning to think it wasn't a very good choice, after all."

She blinked at that, and shook her head, causing her curls to bounce behind her. "Well, not that I think you should have left him to die, or anything." A brief glimpse of humor in her tone. "But no, that wasn't what I wanted to thank you for."

Draco felt a churning in his stomach, as he thought of the last few weeks of stories in the papers, knowing the perfect life she thought she had had just been turned upside down. No thanks to him, no help from him, not even any sympathy from him. "Granger, I have done nothing for you that you could possibly be thanking me for."

At this statement, she looked at him earnestly, "Oh, but you have!" He couldn't bring himself to look away from her, wishing there really was something he could have done for her.

"That night," she began, and there was no need to explain which night she meant, "it's like a nightmare to me. I asked myself so many times if it could possibly be real." She stopped to think for a minute, deciding how she could say what she hadn't been able to tell anyone else yet.

"I think I knew immediately, though, that it was real. I think," she paused, glancing at the closed door, "I think I may have always known. They say I'm the brightest witch of the age, so how could I not know? But even the brightest can be fools, I guess. I think I was just hoping that I was wrong, pretending that everything was okay." She tugged at the hem of her skirt, again, an excuse to look down and not at him. She was ashamed of herself, her words reflecting the type of self-loathing Draco was intimately familiar with.

Draco couldn't imagine why she was telling him this. They were only the most casual of friends, occasionally sharing a deeper moment. He didn't have a reputation for being sympathetic or caring, and if she was seeking comfort, there was very little he would be able to do that Potter and She-Potter wouldn't have done better.

"The tabloids all like to show how…devastated … I am," she stumbled a bit over the well-used adjective. "I think I feel vastly more disappointed in myself. For being one of those girls. One of those foolish girls. One of those weak girls who can't face unpleasant truths. And one of those ridiculous girls that gets wronged, and then blames herself." Her words were coming out a little faster, a little stronger.

Incensed, Draco blurted out, not caring about diplomacy, "You are not to blame that Weasel is an idiot!"

He was rewarded for his outburst with a small grin from Hermione, "No, I know that. I mean, I think I know that. In my head, I know that. I say almost the same thing to myself every day, actually." Appeased, Draco resolved to hold his tongue, watching her face slowly fade from the grin. "It's just hard, sometimes, to feel like," she licked her lips carefully, "I could have been better at being a girlfriend. At being a fiancée."

"That's ridiculous!" Draco bit out, his eyes hard, his tone brooking no contradiction. "Weasley wouldn't know quality if it stole his wand and hexed him with it! It's an unfortunate failing of Weasleys everywhere, and he clearly had more than his fair share."

Hermione actually laughed at that. "Watch it, some of my best friends are Weasleys."

For a second Draco thought she meant that she was still on friendly terms with Ron, and he was prepared to be horrified. Then he realized she meant all the rest of the Weasleys who were surely like family to her. "Well, maybe he inherited Ginny's share, too," he begrudgingly admitted, "She's a Potter now, anyway, and don't tell him I said this, but Potter is," he nearly choked on the words, "a quality guy."

"Why, Malfoy," she teased, "that was almost affectionate."

"I take it back," he grumbled. "I hate him and the broom he flew in on."

She laughed again, sending a thrill down his spine, and making it difficult for him to keep his surly face. "Much too late, Malfoy. I see right through you."

At that, he looked in her eyes again, wondering if she really could. Wondering how badly he wanted her to. He was relieved, though, to see that some of the shadows were gone from the few seconds of levity they had just shared.

"Malfoy," she began again, less unsure this time, "I wanted to thank you," and here she ignored the slight growl he emitted, raising her voice to continue uninterrupted, "for your anger." She knew she had his attention, and confused, he could think of no response.

She elaborated. "I was upset that night. I daresay I was a bit angry. But mostly I was hurt. I was disappointed in Ron, and in myself. And in all the days afterwards, people felt sorry for me. And people were disgusted. And people have tiptoed around me. And people have offered to pummel Ron for me."

"Dibs," Malfoy said, causing Hermione to lose track of her thoughts for a second at the Muggle saying that popped out of his mouth.

Distracted, she said, "Actually, I think George did it pretty well, and seemed to take quite the joy from doing it, really."

At the grunt of disappointment from Malfoy, she laughed again. "George really loves Ron, though. So does Ginny. Harry, of course." Malfoy's snort clearly expressed what he thought of those sentiments, and she continued, "I feel like in time, everyone will eventually forgive him, and go back to loving him."

"I will not," Malfoy declared unequivocally, emboldened by her acceptance of his disparaging remarks.

"I know," Hermione said, quietly. "I'm afraid sometimes that I might. But I think of your anger that night. I hear that truly frightening roaring sound you made, and I see the streak of blood across Ron's scared face from when you hexed him, and it reminds me that I was not to blame. That Ron is responsible for his own cowardice. That I deserve to be angry. That someone who never loved Ron and never loved me can see it as clear as day, and be moved to anger. I wasn't thinking it then, but over the last few weeks, when I start to get confused as to what I ought to be feeling, I remember that anger, and it makes me feel whole again."

Draco didn't know how to answer her. She assumed his anger was over injustice, and had nothing to do with feelings for her. She had no way of knowing that if it had been anyone else, he might not have batted an eye, but his fury was at the callous disregard for what Weasley didn't realize was his most precious possession: the trust and love of Hermione Granger.

She continued. "Ron wants to get back together with me." The snarling sound escaped Draco before he could think better of it.

Fortunately, she took it as a general expression of disgust, and waved him off. "No, I won't do it. But sometimes I feel pressure from the people around me to make up and play nice, so everything can go back to how it was. But I can't. I know I don't seem angry. But I am. I'm furious. I just, I can't always pull it up. So I use yours. And it gives me strength to justify moving forward and not looking back."

After this revelation, she seemed to realize how awkward it sounded. Her eyes widened a bit, and she backtracked, "I just—I kind of thought—I wanted you to know, that whatever people say about that night, I'm glad to feel like you were on my side, and no one else's. Even if, well, I mean, that might not have been exactly what you were feeling, but it mattered to me, anyway." She looked at him, then, anxiously waiting for a response, wondering if maybe she had just made herself look even more foolish.

He just stared at her, that yearning he always felt growing into something he didn't even recognize. When he finally trusted his voice to speak, he repeated her words, "Your side. And no one else's." It felt uncomfortably like a vow, so he clarified. "That's what I was feeling. That night."

And the smile bloomed on her face, tinged with relief. Draco realized that if they weren't friends before, surely they must be now. Hermione Granger seemed to need some friends, and it was surreal for him to think he might be able to count himself among them.

She stood up to go, the words that had driven her to seek him out still lingering in the air. Her hand was on the door, opening it, when Draco, unable to restrain himself, called out, "Were you going to be at the Ministry dinner tonight?"

She looked back at him and made a face, her nose scrunching up adorably. "Don't tell Kingsley but I was planning on avoiding it, actually. I can think of very little worse than pretending to play nice while everyone mutters 'Poor, Hermione!' under their breaths." She amended that statement with, "Unless, of course, it's having to sit at the same table as Ron and Lavender at the same time."

Draco had been intending on avoiding the dinner as well. Shacklebolt had threatened him with (near) bodily harm if he didn't attend, but after the last time, he didn't see how the threats could possibly be worse than the attending. So even he was surprised when he said, "I have to go, unfortunately."

Granger made a little apologetic sound, her hand still on the now-open door.

Draco was telling himself to shut his mouth, but somehow he just kept talking. "You could go with me."

Confusion showed in her eyes, and her jaw dropped a little bit at the unexpected request.

"I know better than anyone the desire to run away from bad press." He lightly alluded to his family's doings in the war, of course. "Hiding never helps." He could see her face start to get indignant at the idea that she was hiding. "Go on the offensive. You're Hermione Granger. You don't back down. You go to every Ministry function, and you own it. You wear the best dress. You eat all the food in front of you. You dance when appropriate. You're the brightest witch of the age, and he's just a Weasel, and she's just a skanky bint who wears too much lipstick to cover her own inadequacies."

At that, she smiled, looking out the doorway, and then looking back at him. "She does wear too much lipstick, doesn't she?" she conceded.

"Skanky bint," Malfoy repeated, emphasizing each word.

Granger contemplated his request, and then she clearly reached a resolution, because she took a deep breath and said, "Okay, you're right. I'll go. I'll go with you." She mumbled under her breath, "Merlin, I'm going to need a dress," as she walked out without saying goodbye.

Draco's excitement soared at her acquiescence, more than he had thought possible when the idea crossed his mind and ran out of his mouth without a filter. He tried to tamp the feelings down, reminding himself that it was just a Ministry dinner. But he could no longer concentrate on his paperwork, so he called it a day, and left to stare at his wardrobe wondering if he should make an effort to wear anything but black.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

In the end, he wore much the same thing he would normally wear at a Ministry function: high quality black dress robes. The only concession to the night that he would allow himself was a Slytherin pendant draped around his neck on a silver chain. To him, being a Slytherin spoke of quiet power. When he wore it, people tended not to look him in the eye. He thought it fitting, since most people thought he should be ashamed of his heritage, and though he didn't always flaunt it, he would never allow their viewpoint to become his own. He did wonder, briefly, if he was purposely testing Hermione to see if she would be uncomfortable with it. He needn't have worried.

They had arranged to simply meet at the Ministry, and Draco had strategically arrived early to choose an advantageous seat. Or so he told himself, refusing to believe that he wanted to ensure that Granger wouldn't have to spend a moment alone, or unsupported, in the shark-infested waters of the Ministry crowd.

She didn't see him when she walked in, so she didn't notice the shock on his face. She was wearing a brilliantly emerald dress—expensive, sexy, and uncompromisingly proud—vastly different from her usual conservative neutrals. Her chestnut curls, piled on top of her head, seemed to gleam with the slightest of reddish tints and he realized there were jewels dancing in her hair radiating light.

He didn't think he'd ever seen Granger's knees before, Wizarding styles being anything but risqué. But in this Muggle dress he was treated to the sight of quite a bit of leg, and as she turned around, clearly looking for someone, he saw the open expanse of her back, covered prettily with the black lace ties that draped from where it was fastened around her neck.

He had told her to wear the best dress. And in that moment, Draco couldn't think of any dress, Wizarding or Muggle, which could beat Hermione Granger. She was fabulously sexy, and she didn't even notice the admiring glances sent her way, so intent was she on searching the room.

It took a moment for Draco to realize that she was looking for him, and the thought that she was there, for him, wearing that dress, for him, sent hot streaks fluttering through his stomach. He reminded himself that she was not wearing it for him, she was wearing it for herself. But he could certainly enjoy the sight.

As he moved toward her, a glass of wine in his hand, she noticed him, and her face lit up with a smile. He didn't return it, knowing that Malfoy with a silly grin on his face would be highly remarked upon. Instead, he kept his eyes intent on hers, and when he reached her, he inclined his head briefly, offering her the glass of wine.

She looked at him a little shyly, and whispered, "I had to look all afternoon, but do you think I got it right?" He could tell she was resisting the urge to tug on her much-higher-than-usual hemline. "The dress, I mean," she clarified, as if he didn't already know what she meant.

"If you wanted the Weasel's eyes to fall out of his head, yes," he returned, and she smiled at that. "If you wanted Lav-Lav to cry tears of inadequacy that she could never look so beautiful, then also yes." She smirked a bit at his use of Lavender's ridiculous self-appointed nickname.

"And if you wanted to show the Ministry and the entire Wizarding World that Hermione Granger is a force to be reckoned with who needs no man to define her, then absolutely, yes, you got it right." She made a little hum of approval, and with a show of spirit, she took his arm, for him to walk her to their table.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said, "I can't walk in these heels too well, so I'm going to have to use you to hold me up."

"Well, I suppose that's my job for the evening, then," he responded in good humor, his eyes just catching with hers, feeling light at the sensation of Hermione Granger looking like a goddess, hanging on his arm and joking with him.

"Actually, your job is to make snarky comments and remind me why I have every right to be mad."

"A task I excel at, fortunately, allowing me plenty of time to also serve as a prop to hold you up." She giggled quietly at that.

Draco wondered if this was what it was like to have someone on your side. To share jokes, to make plans, to declare war on everyone else. He was afraid to enjoy it too much, being too used to fighting a one-man battle.

The evening meal progressed very normally. There were countless courses offered to them, and Draco did his part to keep up a colorful commentary on anyone whom Hermione so much as frowned at. Before long, she wasn't frowning anymore, she was trying very hard not to laugh loudly at his all too perceptive and frequently unkind observations.

"You're really very mean," she said, enjoying herself immensely, for the first time in many weeks.

"If you think that was bad, wait until you hear what I have to say about that incredibly tacky ensemble Lav-Lav deceived herself into thinking was attractive." He watched her face fall a little, as his pointed words alerted her to the fact that Ron and Lavender had just walked in together, fashionably late. He saw her start to turn around, so he quickly said, "Don't look. They don't matter."

"Easy for you to say," she said sadly, but she didn't look.

"He's a two-timing bastard, and she's a two-knut hussy," he dismissed them with a flick of his finger. "Have some of this chocolate torte." He cut off a generous slice and placed it on her plate.

She blinked at his abrupt change of subject, and then as if steeling herself, she picked up her fork and started to take large bites. Draco's hand on her wrist stopped her.

"Darling," he drawled, not looking at her, as he slowly used his fork to take a piece of her torte, "dessert is never a chore, and always savored unhurried." So saying, he placed the bite in his mouth.

Realizing the advice he was giving her, she resolved to enjoy her dessert, pushing the subject of Ron and Lavender far from her mind, concentrating instead on the creamy richness of the chocolate dessert in front of her. Whether it was the chocolate, or the company, by the time it was finished she felt fortified, stronger, and ready for her next personal battle.

It came sooner than expected, as the dancing began, and people started to move around the room, shooting glances at her when they thought she wasn't looking. After the first few songs, during which both Draco and Hermione remained seated, each sipping on a glass of champagne, the Minister walked up to the stage, along with a few other heads of departments, including Harry Potter.

From the stage, Harry Potter looked directly at them, surprise evident on his face, as he saw Hermione sitting there. He quickly looked away, probably guessing, correctly, that he would draw attention to her if he was staring, although his eyes did flick to her once more before he settled to listen to Shacklebolt.

"I told him I wasn't coming tonight," Hermione whispered out of the side of her mouth, by way of explanation, looking a little concerned about the reserved expression on Harry's face.

As the Minister spoke, there were several accolades handed out for various accomplishments within the Ministry. When Potter stepped up to speak, Draco felt his heart sink in his chest. He very much hoped that what he feared was about to happen was not truly going to happen.

When Potter began to wax poetic about bravery defining the Aurors, Draco knew without a doubt, and he looked quickly over at Hermione who didn't seem to have a clue, as she was smiling proudly at Harry as she always did.

But then Potter began to describe the battle in which Draco had rescued Weasley, and he saw her face go white. All eyes turned to them, and Ron, who had jumped up to cheer Draco's rescue paused comically as he saw who was sitting next to him, an indescribable look on his face giving way to anger and contempt, quickly hidden behind a mask of politeness as he resumed his clapping, not looking at Draco, and sitting down.

Potter and the Minister gave him public thanks for his service, while Draco tried not to sneer that Weasley's life wasn't worth saving, and Hermione was practicing gracious and polite applause, carefully avoiding the eyes of everyone. Her face had regained some color from its initial blanching, but she was clearly a bit unhinged at finding herself so awkwardly, and indirectly, spotlighted.

After, when the Minister encouraged everyone to continue to dance, and the band struck up a lively tune, Draco grabbed her hand and said, "We're dancing, Granger." She balked, unwilling to bring herself further into the public eye.

He tugged on her hand a little more forcefully, and in a low voice, he said, "I'm a celebrity tonight. I need to dance. You're a celebrity every day. You need to dance. Show off the dress. And if the Weasel tries bothering you, Merlin help me, I will hex him again."

He saw her chin go up, belatedly remembering he was supposed to remind her of her right to be angry, although his words did seem to do the trick. She grasped his hand more firmly, and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.

When he took her in his arms, he realized he'd forgotten that her back was bare, and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers sent electric shocks up his arms. Her skin was soft and warm, her flesh firm but yielding under his palm. He was blinded momentarily by a bolt of lust, entirely inappropriate to the evening and which he quickly suppressed, launching them into an easy waltz.

As a Malfoy, Draco knew all of the wizarding dances, and effortlessly transitioned to the next dance, gratified to see her face reflecting momentary enjoyment. When she glanced up at him, her innocent remark, "You're fun to dance with," sent shivers up and down his arms as he helplessly envisioned much slower, much closer dancing.

He was almost relieved when Potter cut in, and Draco, surreptitiously rubbing his stomach as if that could soothe the knots that were tightening there, handed Hermione over to her best friend.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Draco was back at his table, sipping on another glass of champagne and wishing it was Firewhiskey, when he heard Hermione and Potter coming back. With his back to them they probably didn't realize he could hear them faintly above the sound of the music.

"I just want you to be sure," Potter was saying, "I'll support your decisions, either way. I just don't want you showing up here with him because you know it would make Ron madder than a hatter."

The remark caused Draco to sourly down the rest of his champagne. He had thought he and Potter had an understanding, him being one of the few people that Draco actually respected (begrudgingly). It hurt more than he expected to hear himself described that way, and he wondered if that was truly why Hermione had agreed to go with him that evening. Her next words surprised him.

"Harry Potter, I'm going to pretend that you didn't just say that," her voice was sharp, hissing. "Yes, there are aspects of this evening that are just to make Ron mad. But Malfoy is not one of them. Malfoy is here for me."

"What do you mean Malfoy is here for you?" Potter sounded confused, and Draco bitterly thought it was because he didn't believe that a Malfoy was ever there for anyone but himself.

"Malfoy is on my side." She said it with conviction, and Draco was absurdly pleased with himself to hear her defense of him.

"Malfoy," Potter corrected, "is always on whatever side is against Ron." Well, that was probably true, Draco had to admit to himself. Although, irrelevant in this case.

"Well, so am I," huffed Hermione. Then she backtracked, "And that's not what you were saying ten minutes ago when you were praising Draco's actions in saving Ron." The sound of his given name from her lips gave him an odd thrill as he realized she'd never called him that to his face. And that he really, really wanted her to.

Potter sighed, "Malfoy is a good guy, Hermione. I even like him sometimes. That's not my problem." He paused. "I'm just worried about you."

Draco decided it was time to make his presence known. He stood up and turned around, the empty glass of champagne held casually in his fingertips. "No need, Potter." He glanced at Hermione who was clearly concerned about what he had overheard, and then he turned back to Potter. "Hermione," and he savored calling her by her name out loud for the first time, "can certainly take care of herself."

The great Harry Potter scowled like a child, "I know that, Malfoy."

Looking him straight in the eye, closing the short distance between them, Draco asked, "Do you? Really?"

He didn't break the stare and Potter searched his gaze intently, looking for something. Just in time, Draco remembered to shut down his mind to Potter's Legilimency, knowing that even Harry Potter's scruples would not hold when his friends were in danger.

What Harry glimpsed in those icy depths before the locks shut down must have surprised him greatly. He grabbed a Firewhiskey from a passing server, downed it in one gulp, and said, "Well, shit, Malfoy." And then he walked off.

Funny, that's exactly what Draco was thinking, his mind reeling, wondering what Harry had seen and hoping it wasn't what he suspected. But lately nothing had been going his way, so it was probably the worst, although he wasn't sure what the worst could be.

Hermione looked at him, confused, and he turned his attention back to her. "I don't suppose you'd like a Firewhiskey, too?" he asked. He actually meant that he needed one, but she shook her head, eager to get back to the conversation at hand.

"What just happened?" she asked. And since Draco didn't actually know, he just shrugged.

But something he had just heard didn't sit right with him. He knew she was trying to make Ron mad, and that was the whole point (a point of which he wholeheartedly approved), but he didn't like the thought that she was purposely trying to throw Slytherin house in Ron's face, as if Slytherins were somehow inferior or evil. He'd dealt with enough of that bigotry so it should have been unsurprising, but he had sort of been hoping that Hermione didn't view him that way.

With Harry gone they were alone at their table again, and Draco didn't waste any time. "Why did you wear the dress?" he asked, unsuccessful at keeping suspicion from lacing his tone.

She was busy flagging a server down and so she didn't see the look on his face. But she turned around, concerned, "I thought you said I got the right dress." She looked so put out, it was almost comical. But for some reason Draco needed to find out the answer to this one question, so he pushed her.

"But why did you get that color?"

Thinking about it, Hermione said, slowly, as if speaking to a child, "Because that's the color it came in." A server responding to Hermione's summons set a glass of Firewhiskey down in front of her. She thanked him and then promptly moved it in front of Draco.

He was taken aback at the gesture, temporarily sidetracked from his interrogation and looked questioningly at her. She shrugged, "What? You wanted one, right?"

He had. He'd decided he wasn't going to start shooting Firewhiskey if she wasn't going to be having any (out of some misguided attempt at politeness, he supposed). But clearly, since she was offering, he wasn't going to pass it up. He took a sip, enjoying the fire burning down his throat. But that didn't stop him from continuing. "But why not your house colors?" he prodded. "You've always shone in reds and golds."

"I just liked the dress," she stated honestly. "It was beautiful." Her brows furrowed as she tried to understand why he was quizzing her about her dress color.

He should have let it go at that, but he needed to be sure, so he pointed out, "You could have transfigured it to a different color very easily."

"I guess so," she acknowledged, uncomfortably. "I figured no one else would be wearing it. I've always wanted to, it just never seemed appropriate. I just...I wanted to feel bold. And powerful. And eye-catching."

He looked at her, then, understanding what she meant. "You are," he reassured her quietly. "Bold, powerful, eye-catching. And it's not the dress." She looked a little confused at that, and afraid he was saying too much, he added, "But the dress is perfect just the same."

She sat at the table, looking at her glass of champagne, lost in thought, her lips pursed. Then she turned to him and said, "You don't own a color, you know."

Nearly done with the Firewhiskey, Draco's eyebrows rose into his hairline, "Pardon?"

She huffed at him. "You don't own the color green. You were thinking I didn't have the right to wear green because I'm not a Slytherin. Well, your house doesn't own the color green."

He gaped at her, the glass still halfway to his mouth. "I was not thinking that."

But she didn't hear him, because she was still talking, a little bit peeved, "And if I decide to wear black one day, you can't arrest me for impersonating a Malfoy, either." She snorted at that. "Colors are colors. I will wear green if I damn well want to wear green. And if I wear it better than any Slytherin ever did, that's really not my fault. What?"

He was grinning at her, amused by her tirade, feeling light-hearted. "Actually, no one wears green better than me." He nudged the glass with the last of the Firewhiskey over to her, almost like a peace offering.

She snatched it up and downed it, and then remarked in her regular tones, "No one would ever know, since I don't believe I've ever seen you in green outside of school." She smirked up at him. "I assumed you would be wearing black tonight, and so I would be the only one in green. And really that was only an afterthought as I'd already bought the dress."

"Slytherin House would have been honored to have you, Hermione Granger," Draco said, meaning it, almost wishing that was how it had happened. He could have snatched her up before any Weasley ever laid eyes on her. There was no doubt in his mind that had she been in Slytherin house, Muggle-born or not, she would have been his long before now.

"Damn straight!" she said, and he grinned at her, knowing she was responding to his words, not his unspoken thoughts, but agreeing with the sentiment all the same.

"I thought for a minute, actually, that the dress was green just to get under Ron's skin by associating you with Slytherin." He raised his hands in surrender, laughing, as he saw her eyes narrow, "I know. Now, I mean. I know now. We don't own colors." As an afterthought he added, "Except for Malfoy Black, of course."

Intrigued, her eyes widened and she asked in hushed tones, "Do you really have your own shade of black, Malfoy?"

Before he could respond to her gullibility, they were interrupted by grating tones. "Why Hermione, I'm glad to see you're trying to come back out into society."

They both looked up to see a heavily made-up Lavender Brown, a sneer on her face, her words anything but sincere. In the silence that followed this proclamation, Lavender looked Hermione up and down, and then she conspicuously shifted her ample bosom, declaring, "I can see why Ron always found you so…lacking." Her eyes pointedly aimed at her chest. "Good on you for trying, though. It's too bad you have to reduce yourself to dressing like a...well, a tramp," she batted her eyes with false apology, "but I'm sure you'll eventually find someone happy to take what little you can offer."

With that shockingly bad-mannered statement, she flounced off with a little, "Ta-ta!"

Draco snorted in disgust, irritated that there was no good reason for him to whip out his wand and hex her. He leaned towards Hermione to make a disdainful comment about Lavender's effrontery but stopped abruptly when he realized the bright, vivacious girl of moments ago had all but wilted under the senseless verbal assault.

Suddenly angered, he turned her to face him, giving her a little shake. "You did not just buy that…that…swill from that swine," he bit out. When she turned her face to look up at him, he saw the bright sheen that spoke of unshed tears, and cursed under his breath. His fingers trembled with the urge to wipe them from her eyes, but he just gripped her shoulders a little harder, shaking her unresisting form.

"Listen to me," he ground out. "You're Hermione Granger. In all her life, with the darkest magic behind her, she could never aspire to come close to you. She will always be lacking. And Ron deserves her because he's an idiot who deserves nothing but strife and drama for the rest of his hopefully pitifully short life." He punctuated the last words with little shakes, her curly hair bobbing.

She sniffed for a moment, audibly gulping, and blinking back the telltale tears. "You're angry," she whispered.

"Damn straight!" he quoted her, releasing her shoulders because he desperately wanted to do the exact opposite. He regarded his empty Firewhiskey glass, his desire for another one obvious enough that a server immediately brought him one. Draco scowled at his retreating back, "Where was he two minutes ago?"

Hermione's voice was creaky, but she gamely tried to carry on a conversation. "What could he possibly have done two minutes ago?"

Draco snorted. "Well, I would have had Firewhiskey. I could have tossed it into her eyes to see if it burned, for one."

Hermione's hands quickly covered her mouth and Draco looked at her, worried that she was about to cry. But then a soft giggle escaped her hands. "You're so mean."

Relieved that she wasn't reduced to tears, he smirked and said, "It might have been doing her a favor. Merlin knows having the make-up burned off her could only improve her looks."

She giggled again, another quiet one, but it quickly escalated into a louder one. Draco couldn't help but laugh with her. She started to stammer around her giggles, almost unable to catch her breath, "Can you im—imagine?" Giggle. "Drenched in Firewhiskey." Giggle, giggle. "Peeved like Cr—Crookshanks caught in a thunderstorm." Her voice raised on the last word. She must have found this image hilarious, because he started to see the tears leaking from her eyes. She took a napkin from the table, dabbing at her eyes.

She finally calmed enough to reach for a sip of water. But when the glass was at her mouth, she caught his amused look, and burst out laughing again, spitting water everywhere on the table.

Draco caught the disapproving glare being shot at them from across the room by Ron Weasley, but thankfully Hermione was too caught up in her laughter and apologizing to the servers who were picking up the wet dishes and dabbing at the tablecloth. She didn't need any more negativity, so he purposely distracted her from glancing in Weasley's direction.

When the servers had left, replacing her glass of water with a new one, and Hermione was carefully sipping at it, he drily stated with finality, "Well, I'm not taking you out in public ever again."

Her chocolate eyes danced with laughter and she teased, "Malfoy Rule #29: Thou shalt not dribble your beverage at the dinner table."

He glared at her playfully, his voice thick with aristocratic tones. "Malfoys do not need rules to tell them what is obvious to even the most uncivilized peasant." A pause. "Which is that thou shalt not dribble your beverage anywhere."

She stared at him before bursting into more peals of laughter, sending warm trickles up and down his spine. Her hand clasped his arm, her touch burning through his sleeve.

Merlin, she was beautiful when she laughed. Weasley was such a fool.

As much as he hated to bring the evening to an end, he said, "We should go now. End on a high note, so the last thing people see is you laughing your head off." He stood up and offered her his arm.

Seeing the wisdom in this, she accepted and they walked out, her talking animatedly, and him trying unsuccessfully to maintain his normal stern expression. Neither noticed the glowers sent their way by one Weasel and the concerned glances exchanged by two Potters.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Draco thought of Hermione incessantly for the next several days. It was traditional to send a date a bouquet of flowers or some other token of appreciation for their company on the morning after. But since the tradition was an old one, he wasn't sure which would be more irritating to a Muggle-born: to receive a gift (as if it were payment?) or to be ignored (as if considered inconsequential?). After debating the question for hours, and having no one to consult with, he finally decided that he was wasting his time trying to figure out which was the right move. He went to sleep determined to go to work the next day as if nothing had happened.

That night, and every night after, he was plagued with shimmery memories of their night together. His brain seemed obsessed with replaying those moments when she danced in his arms. When he slumbered, he could feel again the satiny smoothness of her skin and the sensual texture of the lace at her back. In his dreams she looked up at him and she laughed, and he held her close, and they spun and spun and the world was just lights around them.

Sometimes he even leaned down to put his mouth on hers, and she wrapped her arms around him and he breathed in her scent. She was warm and soft, shy and eager, and he couldn't get enough of the feel of her, the magnificent emerald dress bunching in his hands as he clutched at her, until somehow it was gone and his hands were free to roam over her willing flesh. And it was just the two of them, spinning and spinning, and he didn't dare stop to breathe. Except he always needed oxygen, and when he finally gasped for air, he would wake up with his heart pounding, his arms empty and aching, and he would curse himself for being a lovesick fool.

He was gearing up for a raid, running a check on his equipment, when she burst into his office in a flurry. In her hands was a copy of Witch Weekly, and the excitement on her face caused him to pause in his actions to take in the pleasing color of her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

"We did it!" she said without any preamble. And when Draco raised one eyebrow in a questioning glance, she slammed the copy of the magazine down on his desk. He didn't tell her that he'd already received his copy that morning. As he always did he had devoured it for any news of her, so he knew she was on the cover and that there were several pages detailing their night at the Ministry dinner inside.

"I look fabulous!" she crowed, pointing out the moving picture of her laughing on the cover, the emerald dress sparkling, her eyes sassy and sultry at the same time—the very picture of confidence and poise. Underneath the caption read: "War-Heroine Hermione Granger Outshines the Brightest Stars of the Night." Smaller pictures on the side showed Harry and Ginny, the Minister, the Weasel, and even one of him, none of which could compare to the glowing image of Granger.

"You do," Draco acknowledged, forbearing to mention that he included the current moment in his assessment, as well as the picture on the cover. "But I thought we'd already agreed on that."

"I know," she said passionately, "but this is the first time that they talk about me as if I am a person and not just an extension of Ron Weasley, or even Harry Potter, and certainly not a tragic victim of infidelity. You were right: I just needed to out-confidence them."

He put a bored look on and shook out his gloves as he pulled them on and laced them up. "Of course I was right. That's what I do."

She laughed at him, and he tried to keep the pleased look off of his face that she could find his arrogance entertaining instead of offensive.

"I'm too happy to argue the point at the moment," Hermione said with good humor, making herself at home in the chair in front of his desk. She flipped the magazine back around so she could look at it, pointing out one of Draco's favorite pictures of the two of them laughing at the dinner table. "Look, here's one of the two of us!"

To amuse her, he looked, pretending to regard it carefully. In reality he was noticing the picture in the corner that showed a pouty Lavender Brown trying to wheedle something from Weasley. The image in the box stamped her foot repeatedly, her face ugly with frustration. He'd already seen the picture, of course, but his copy didn't include magically drawn horns and buck teeth.

She noticed him smirking at it and she grinned mischievously. "I never said I was an artist."

"On the contrary, Granger—you have a very perceptive eye." He made a show of looking at it more closely and added, "Your sense of proportion seems to be rooted in a different reality, as I'm sure those teeth are roughly the size of her arm, but there's a certain charm to it all the same."

"You don't think I'm being childish?" she asked hesitantly. "To feel triumph at something as shallow as a flattering shot in a tawdry magazine?"

Draco noticed she didn't mention the defacing of Lavender Brown's, well, face, because that was obviously a bit childish. She was still seeking reassurance that her feelings were valid.

After a moment of looking at the magazine, he looked up at her and said, "Granger, the first time I appeared in a magazine and wasn't called a Death Eater, a traitor, a pureblood fascist or anything on the theme, I celebrated being just Draco Malfoy. It's not childish to hope the public can see you for who you are, and not just what you've endured."

She sobered very quickly at that, no doubt wracking her mind for any times she might have contributed to Wizarding Society's shunning of Draco Malfoy. Though the war was well behind them, the scars left behind would never completely fade. She hadn't given much thought to how difficult it must have been for Draco to be accepted by society without having to make constant reparations for his misdeeds as a boy.

"We should celebrate, then," Hermione finally said, causing Draco to look up at her sharply. She explained, "I'm Hermione Granger, a girl who likes books and a good cup of tea, and has ambition to accomplish something great in the Ministry. And you're Draco Malfoy, an extraordinarily talented Auror who wears a lot of black and enjoys playing quidditch. And it doesn't matter what the tabloids or ignorant, blind, self-righteous idiots say, they don't define us. Only we can define us."

Touched, and a little bit thrilled to hear her use the word "us," he just nodded, once. "I have to report for duty and it looks to be a long day."

"Oh, okay," Hermione said, trying to hide her disappointment, slowly getting up. She picked up her magazine and made as if to leave.

"Tomorrow, maybe," Draco called out to her. "During lunch. You can bring a piece of cake or something."

She smiled at that, and as she walked out she said, "Be safe." No doubt she had said the phrase countless times to others, but it was the first time Draco had ever had anyone show such casual concern over his welfare, and he took a moment to savor it before hastily picking up his things and walking quickly down the hall to where he was already late for the briefing.

The next day, due to a flurry of teenagers illegally using magic outside of school and getting themselves into considerable trouble, Draco missed lunch back at his desk. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't like they'd set up a date or something. It would seem awfully formal if he sent her an owl telling her he was going to be late. She might not even have taken him seriously, and probably wasn't planning on coming by at all. He wasn't sure which was worse at the moment: that she would stop by his desk and not find him there, with no word, or that she wasn't thinking about him at all and had already dismissed their conversation from her mind.

Okay, clearly the latter was worse.

When he made it back, a bit grimy from the field, he stopped short to find a single slice of cake sitting on his desk. It had a magical protection bubble around it, presumably keeping it fresh, but also making it look a little bit like a special snowglobe of cake. He slowly lowered his gear in a corner, to be unpacked later, and with a casual glance over his shoulder, he closed his office door.

He was feeling sort of pleased and tingly and didn't want anyone coming in to ask him questions. He sat at his desk, noting the skill of the magic weaved around the cake, and with a few words and a flick of his wand, he disbursed it.

The cake was black. It smelled rather sinfully of chocolate, making it clear what flavor it was, but it was unusual for a cake to be so dark. The frosting was also black and on the top was a profusion of black sprinkles. In fact, there were so many sprinkles on the cake that they were scattered all over the plate as well.

He noticed a slip of paper sticking out from underneath the plate, and drew it out to see a note from Granger.

"Mine was gold. Because I'm not a depressive soul who resents all the colors of the rainbow in retaliation for being born with albino hair and as a consequence invents my own shade of black."

He laughed aloud at that, his fingers resting on the light lines of her signature at the bottom. It said, simply, "HG."

Idly flipping the note over, he saw a P.S. "I thought the sprinkles made it look more festive."

He ate it while logging his day's activities, a silly grin plastered on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was late in the evening and Hermione was settling onto the couch in her new flat. It had been exceptionally painful to walk away from the cozy little home she'd set up with Ron, but she had quickly determined that she was not going to take anything away from there unless she absolutely needed it. Ron could have it all.

That meant that she'd taken all of her books (and Crookshanks, of course), but little else. She had more than enough funds to replace anything that needed replacing, and after the first day or two of sitting depressively in the middle of an empty room, she took Ginny on a whirlwind shopping tour. (Ginny had brought Jamie along so there had been plenty of stops to show off the adorably chubby baby, and Hermione found herself purchasing almost as many baby items as household items.)

Though her flat wasn't quite finished yet, she was becoming more and more satisfied that it truly reflected her taste and her new direction in life.

Ron had been a bit embarrassed by her love of books, so she'd tried to keep her bookshelves out of the way. But here she placed them prominently on display on some truly magnificent mahogany shelves that stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling. She even had one of those fun little ladders that you could push along the rails to reach the books on the uppermost shelf. Obviously, magic made it much easier to bring the books down, but sometimes you just wanted to climb up and browse, tracing your fingers along the spines until you found one you wanted.

The pictures on the wall were a combination of Muggle and Wizard photographs (not a quidditch poster to be seen). She felt the beauty of the unmoving Muggle shots was that they encapsulated a single moment in time and made it profound. Her favorite was of a sunrise, the first rays hitting the top of a mountain. Sometimes she felt like she'd been in darkness for so long that the rays of the sun were just beginning to hit her.

Her relationship with Ron had always been difficult. Their years at Hogwarts, obviously filled with adventure and danger, were also defined by their budding romance. Ron was a bit reluctant to acknowledge it at first, but when they finally came together, she had been sure that it would be happily ever after. As children she knew Ron was not very mature, but even as they grew into adults, Ron, to her dismay, often seemed the same boy she knew at 16.

He frequently chided her for being boring and drab. He never wanted to have long conversations, preferring to be out playing quidditch, or even sitting in front of the telly that she had magicked to work in their home. (He was somehow fascinated by all the moving people, despite the fact that Magical paintings were much the same. Better, even.)

It was some time after they had moved in together that she began to wonder if he truly loved her or if she was just a convenient habit for him. Was she just the grown-up version of having a mother to make dinner and do the laundry (tasks which she could never do as good as his mum, but for which he regularly forgave her)?

When they would fight it was always she who had been expecting too much, or pushing too hard. And so it was always she who had to make the apologies and right the wrongs. Ron would come around afterwards, sometimes even offering her a token apology. Then he would take her out to dinner, or buy her jewelry, as if those things could somehow repair a relationship that was slowly decaying.

She didn't like to go out that often, so when she started insisting that she'd much rather stay at home, Ron began to go out by himself. Sometimes he'd be out with Harry and the rest of the guys, but sometimes he'd just leave in a huff, annoyed that Hermione didn't want to go off to a party somewhere.

She suspected it was then that he started to see other girls. There was never any evidence that she could see. And when the uneasy feeling came over her that maybe she didn't have Ron's full attention anymore, she ignored it, unwilling to believe such a vile thing about him without some kind of valid reason.

One night he stayed out all night and she wondered if he would even come home. She thought about owling Harry to see if he had crashed on his couch, but wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

In the early morning light, she was sitting at the window in her nightgown when she had heard him stumble in through the Floo. He saw her there, waiting for him, and looked at her with that sheepish smile that never failed to melt her heart.

"Sorry, love, were you worried?" he'd asked. And she hadn't answered, unsure about the feelings swirling around in her chest. He'd taken her silence as an affirmative and slowly made his way over to sit by her.

"I got you something, yeah?" She knew it was more jewelry, but didn't say anything.

Only this time, it wasn't just jewelry; Ron pulled out a box and opened it to reveal an engagement ring. "It's about time, don't you think? A girl shouldn't be waiting up without at least a ring to keep her warm."

And that was how she became engaged to Ron Weasley. She had been happy, elated even, to finally have the evidence of his commitment to her. They were going to share their lives together, and things were going to get better, she hoped.

She recognized now how foolish it was to build more layers on top of a faulty foundation. But at the time, she had been desperately trying to hold together all the pieces of her dreams.

It had all come crumbling down on her that night at the Ministry, seeing Lavender held so familiarly in Ron's arms. She never did find out how long that had been going on. It didn't really matter.

She felt like a failure. She wasn't interesting enough or pretty enough or adventurous enough or spontaneous enough to keep the attention of Ron Weasley. She had failed her marriage before it had even started. She had failed Ginny and Harry who were counting on her to keep Ron in line. But mostly, and she was just now truly beginning to understand this, she had failed herself. She had lied to herself, she had willingly deceived herself, and she even blamed herself.

She didn't recognize herself anymore.

Decorating her new flat had given her the chance to get to know herself again. If she wanted something she purchased it, and didn't wonder if Ron was going to accept it in the home. She moved furniture around, sometimes magically, sometimes the Muggle way, until she found a set up that she liked best and that suited her needs. It meant that instead of facing a telly or a table with a set of wizard's chess, her chaise lounge sofa faced the enormous bay window that let in late afternoon sunlight.

Like now, she was sitting in it, facing the beautiful colors of the setting sun, letting herself just sit and breathe, trying to feel independent and strong and not just lonely and broken. A book lay unopened in her lap. She'd meant to start reading it but had gotten distracted by her thoughts.

She had been quite pleased with herself the last few days. After the Ministry dinner she had redoubled her efforts to move on past the farce that was her relationship with Ron Weasley. She would not be treated as a victim. She would not bemoan her situation. She had gotten herself into the mess, and she was going to celebrate the fact that (however it had happened) she had gotten out of it.

Just as she was wondering about what Malfoy had thought of the slice of cake she'd left him—and she was smiling at the thought of her note—she saw an owl flying up to tap on her window. It was a beautiful snowy white owl with black markings on its legs and face, and so she was unsurprised to discover that such a magnificent specimen of owlhood belonged to Malfoy, based on the scroll that she detached from its leg.

She handed it a little owl treat in thanks, which it regally accepted, making her feel as if she should thank it for the privilege of feeding it. She chuckled a little, charmed by its stiff politeness.

After it flew away, she closed the window, and sat back down in her chaise. By the size of the scroll it seemed to be quite a lengthy letter, and she was immensely curious to see what Malfoy could possibly need to say to her.

She unrolled it, perplexed to see that there was nothing on it. When the scroll was finally all the way open she saw a single line written on the top. It said: "Thank you for the cake." Confused as to why he would need that much scroll to say something so simple, it was still open when another line magically appeared underneath it. "And my incredible, unmatched, magnificent hair is platinum."

She laughed aloud, wondering if the whole scroll was charmed with words that would appear in time.

After a few moments, another line appeared. "And the sprinkles were really quite festive."

She smiled, a warm feeling rising in her that he had enjoyed the silly slice of cake she'd left him. When she'd first begun speaking to him, she'd had to remind herself repeatedly that in a post-Voldemort world they were all supposed to be equals. While she had first steeled herself to receive some unpleasant insults, she was almost shocked to realize that Draco Malfoy could carry on a civilized conversation.

She knew he was unpopular among the Aurors (and with reason), and she often wondered why he even bothered to pursue a profession that put him in contact with so many people who didn't like him. Still, over time she grew to enjoy the brief conversations they had. He was intelligent, witty, and though he had a penchant for snarky comments, she rather thought he would have made a good addition to their little group of friends.

Not for the first time she wondered if things would have been different if they had accepted Draco's friendship that very first year. Different for them, certainly, and probably very, very different for Draco.

She was still holding the scroll open, waiting to see when the next line would appear when the words "Are you there?" were scrawled across in the same graceful calligraphy.

In her surprise, she dropped the scroll to the ground, feeling absurdly like she'd been caught by a teacher with the Marauder's Map. It rolled around on the wood floors, coming to a stop against the leg of her dining table, where she stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment.

Then she bolted off the chaise, snatched it up, and sitting at the table, she read the words again. Merlin, he must be there on the other end right at that same moment. She laughed to herself. Why, he was doing the Wizarding equivalent of texting her!

The thought occurred to her that she needed a quill, just as she realized he'd been waiting for her to answer for a few moments now.

She quickly called a beautiful, feathered, self-inking quill to her with a wandless _Accio_ , but then sat there, the tip poised above the parchment, wondering what she ought to say.

Deciding not to second-guess herself (this wasn't an essay after all), she wrote out, "I think so. Are you?"

Sure enough, the answer arrived immediately. "What a ridiculous answer. If you don't know if you're there or not, I certainly can't help you. But I know for a fact that I am here." She smiled, that warm feeling still fluttering in her stomach.

"Did you eat all the cake?"

"Every last bite, despite its rather sinister appearance. Good thing you left the note, or I would have assumed someone was out to poison me."

"I rather thought the black would make you feel all cozy and fuzzy inside."

"You are under a misapprehension that black is my favorite color."

"You wear it all the time."

"Because it makes me look good, Granger. I'd look terrible in my favorite color."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Brown."

"Brown?! Like wood? Like dead leaves? Like dirt? Like teddy bears?"

"I am scowling right now. No."

"Then like what?"

There was a pause, and Hermione wondered if he was going to answer. Then the words slowly appeared. "Like chocolate: rich and dark and creamy. Like the scent of freshly baked bread: sweet and warm and enticing. Like cinnamon: sometimes spicy hot, sometimes sickly sweet, always tantalizing."

She didn't know what it meant, the hot streaks at the back of her neck. But there was something about his words, almost poetic, that made her feel awkward and shy. She didn't know to respond to it. So she simply said, "My favorite color is green."

She could almost see him smirking when he responded with, "Like trees? Like leaves? Like grass? Like apples?"

And she said, "No, like life."

There was no response for quite a while. She was debating whether or not she should add something to her words when he wrote, "When I think of green, I usually think of death."

And she remembered that the Avada Kadavra spell was green. She didn't know how she could have forgotten, when sometimes those green lights woke her up from nightmares. But she never thought of that as her green. She suddenly felt terrible for inadvertently sending the conversation into morbid territory.

"It's better to think of life," she told him.

"I think that I will, then," was his answer.

She didn't know what else to say after that, so she stated the obvious. "The parchment is almost filled."

"I guess this is goodnight, then, Granger."

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

She didn't know why she kept staring at the parchment for long moments afterwards. She knew he wasn't going to be writing anymore. There wasn't any more room, and they'd already said goodnight. But she continued looking at it, rereading their words, long after the sun had finished setting.

A/N: I'm loving all your reviews! I'm so glad so many of you seem them like I do, and are enjoying the story. This story is about half-written right now, and is eventually looking to be not quite 30 chapters long. The first 15 or so are mostly done, and are going through the process of being betaed by swirlsofblack, and I have the rest of the chapters outlined. So I do actually know how this story ends. Hopefully I can keep writing regularly so the updates come regularly, but after Chapter 15, there may be some delay in the latter half since I don't know when they will be finished.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Whenever a full department meeting of Aurors was called, it was never a good thing. One might think that sometimes they would call a meeting to announce a bonus, a surprise day off or even a celebratory potluck, but if one thought that, one would find oneself regularly disappointed and even offended by the sheer volume of bad news delivered during a full department meeting.

It was this very thought that was reflected in Draco's sneer as he marched himself down the corridor to the open expanse of the main Auror Office where most of the Aurors were already gathered together for whatever bomb the Ministry was about to drop on them. Perhaps there was a serial killer on the loose who, by the way, was also invisible, had the ability to travel through time and whose capture would be rewarded with free potions to restore the limbs you lost in the process of apprehending him. Or perhaps, due to budget cuts, they were going to be limited to one set of shielded armor per Auror partnership, and each partner would have to decide which half they would wear. Perhaps they were reviving the old uniforms, which included robes with extremely high, starched lace collars.

As Draco picked a column towards the back which he could indolently lean against, his training had him automatically observing and cataloguing his surroundings. He quickly spotted the red head of slovenly-arranged hair belonging to one Ronald Weasley, and felt his gaze turn cold. Of course, the thin mark that had crossed his cheek from Draco's hex was long gone, but Draco rather thought it would be many moons before the anger with which the hex had been cast could be considered spent.

It did not escape his notice that Weasley was not wearing his Auror uniform. Though they were not always required to don battle armor, they wore their uniforms on duty, without fail, special assignments notwithstanding. There were many dedicated Aurors who wore their uniforms at all times, knowing they could easily be called out to the field on a moment's notice. Even when not in uniform, most Aurors tended to wear inconspicuous clothing, simple styles and dark colors and, occasionally, their Hogwarts House colors.

Of course, Draco always wore black. His lips twitched at the memory of the conversation with Hermione by scroll where he revealed that black was not his favorite color. He knew she was teasing, but he enjoyed surprising her.

It was a common misconception that he wore black because he liked it. (Or, according to some theories, because his soul was equally as black.) In truth, it was a lesson he learned from his father; black was intimidating. It was powerful. (Not to mention always slimming and flattering on every body type.) Black could imply secrets and luxury, and as a trademark, it could strike fear in the hearts of the opposition. For a Malfoy, opposition could be anyone who did not have the same goals that you did, which meant everyone, at one time or another. Color was a tool, just like Hermione had learned with her breathtaking green dress.

The clothing choices you make, outside of just the color, are also a tool, to gain the influence or the response from others that you are looking for. And today, Ron Weasley's choice of garment proved that he was, in fact, a tool; Ron was wearing a Chudley Cannons jersey, the orange of the team colors contrasting with his hair and the very freckles on his face, which made him look offensively ochreous. Draco's sneer became even more derisive, if such a thing were possible.

The famous self-satisfied grin plastered on his face ensured that whatever news could be making him so happy would surely be disagreeable to Draco. Ron had not yet returned to duty from his sabbatical after his close call with death (a call that could not have been closer than Draco's himself, and yet he clearly needed no sabbatical, probably because he wasn't born a prat of a Weasley, something he couldn't very well hold against Ron, and yet he did, anyway). Draco also suspected that Potter had encouraged the Weasel to stay out of the limelight after the very public dissolution of his engagement to Hermione Granger. And it was possible that he had not been cleared as mentally fit for duty. Frankly, Draco suspected that Weasley never qualified on that count to begin with, and was only passed through because he and Potter were a proven effective duo.

Speaking of Potter, he clearly had his 'official' look on his face, so he would definitely be making an announcement. But as his mien seemed lighter than it had since the debacle at the Ministry Ball, Draco was intrigued by the possibility that there might be a silver lining to this cloud.

"Thank you all for coming," Potter began, as if they weren't all summoned and mandated to be there. "Over the years we have lost many good Aurors, frequently under very sad circumstances. So it pleases me greatly to announce the retirement of my good friend and partner, Ron Weasley, under some of the best circumstances."

Unsure if Ron wanted to make the announcement himself, Potter looked at him for a cue. The Weasel, his Weasel-grin stretching from ear to ridiculous ear, jumped to his feet, pointing at his jersey, and yelled out triumphantly, "I'm going to play for the Cannons, mates! As their new Keeper!"

There was half-hearted cheering and sprinkled applause, followed by considerable laughter. It was no secret that the Cannons were one of the worst teams in the League. It was also no secret that Ron Weasley was fiercely loyal to them. Playing for the Cannons would be a dream come true for the Weasel. Draco would almost begrudge him his happiness, except that would mean conceding there was anything worthwhile in being a Cannon, and that was an admission Draco was not willing to make.

It did look like a bit of good news, though. At least he wouldn't have to see his Weasel-face every day, and he wouldn't have to risk his life again to save his Weasel-neck.

Even more importantly, the thought niggled in the back of his brain, Hermione wouldn't have to see him every day, either. She was well rid of Weasley, of course, but he felt better knowing there was very little chance she'd run into his freckly face when she was least expecting it, and he wouldn't be able to hamstring her life any more than he already had.

In fact, the thought that Hermione would have a virtually Ron-free life made him very nearly smile before he remembered himself.

Potter was expressing the department's regrets at losing such a dedicated (exaggeration) and experienced (exaggeration) and exceptional (immense exaggeration) Auror, and that he himself would be sad to lose his best friend as his partner.

As those words came out of his mouth, Draco noticed that Potter glanced over at him, clearly aware of his feelings as he lounged in the back of the crowd. Potter was trying not to acknowledge the fact that Weasley's presence would not be universally missed. Not everyone realized there was a rift between Weasley and Potter as a result of Ron's breakup with Hermione, but Draco clearly saw that their relationship was strained, if not directly damaged. Not having to work with Ron was probably a blessing in disguise.

"But," Potter was saying, "until I can decide on a permanent partner, I will be temporarily partnered up with the only other Auror who does not currently have one." Oh, great. "Draco Malfoy."

As heads turned towards him, Draco was aware of the fact that there was resentment on many faces, since public sentiment still held that Draco Malfoy was not to be trusted – not as an Auror, and especially not as the partner responsible for the health and safety of the great Harry Potter. This was going to be sacrilege in the minds of many.

Potter was placing him in the spotlight. It was an indication of trust, and while one part of Draco was pleased at the recognition of his abilities and skills, another part was irritated at Potter's incessant need to meddle. A Malfoy did not require others' acceptance, and Draco had no need for the respect of the other Aurors. There were some who would no doubt expect him to express his appreciation for the honor of working alongside their hero, and he would disappoint them with his arrogance. It couldn't be helped.

As the other Aurors surrounded Ron to cheer (and probably to gossip), Draco considered himself dismissed and turned to walk back to his office. Cursed Potter was probably going to want to review all of the scrolls on his recently closed cases, and certainly all the open ones. He had only taken a few steps down the corridor when he felt someone following him. Hoping it wasn't already time for a confrontation with a close-minded Auror who wanted to reemphasize how he was a stain on the noble profession, he turned around to face the person following him.

He sighed inwardly as he faced Potter's good-natured grin. Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder and greeted him with a forced, "Hello, partner." The expressionless face Draco gave him in return made Harry laugh out loud.

In truth, Harry was a long way from being the worst partner. Not only was Potter the (second) best Auror, he had a good head on his shoulders, good instincts, and as much as it pained him to admit it, good sense, too. He was reliable in a fight. Not much for strategy, but since Draco excelled at strategy, there was a good chance they would actually do well together. If they didn't hex each other into oblivion first, that is.

Over the years, Draco had gained a grudging respect for the wizarding world's greatest hero. Not in the least because Potter was one of the only few in the department not to give him hassle for joining the Aurors. He actually seemed to appreciate having Draco's wand and his wits in the pursuit of the Dark wizards and witches.

So when Harry laughed at Draco's face, he responded with the expected sneer. "Partner. Didn't it occur to you to consult me first before announcing it to everyone?"

As they continued walking down the hallway, Harry said, "Of course not. You would have just said no." At Draco's glare, Harry laughed again. "Feel like blowing off this afternoon? I could use some ice cream."

Draco scoffed. "Aren't you supposed to be the boss of this place?"

"Yup. And I'm getting ice cream. As my partner, you can tag along, or you can always go back to your paperwork."

"Our paperwork," Draco corrected him. "Partner."

"Righto," Harry grinned. And Draco had the distinct feeling that somehow he would still end up doing all the paperwork. It occurred to him that even in school Harry barely ever did his homework. Hmm. Maybe he would relent on the whole getting a secretary thing, if it was brought up again. Perhaps they could call her (or him?) an Assistant Auror.

"Anyway, I'm meeting Hermione at Forever Fortescue's in 10 minutes," Harry continued, consulting the Muggle watch he insisted on wearing. "You coming along or not?"

Draco was stuck. He'd been about to tell Potter that he would very well rather beat his head on scroll after scroll of field analysis than play nice sitting a table at the ice cream parlour with him, pretending they were good friends. But Hermione was going to be there. He hadn't seen her in a few days, and since that scroll conversation had passed, he'd had no reason to initiate more contact. If he went with Potter, his new partner, he could casually reconnect with her without looking too eager.

There was a glimmer of amusement in Potter's emerald eyes as he waited for Draco's answer. It made him suspect Potter knew exactly what was running through his mind. Somehow that made the decision easier. He might as well go – Potter was clearly expecting him to, and if he declined now, it might look like he was trying to avoid Hermione. Plus, and more importantly, he really wanted to.

"Fine, I'll meet you there," Draco conceded. "I need to close up a couple files in my office, and I'll be there in a few minutes." The files were a lie since he'd be a pretty sloppy Auror if he just left files around vulnerable to being accessed by just anybody, but it was the best Draco could think of at the moment. He had no intention of arriving at the ice cream parlour tagging along behind the great Harry Potter. And maybe this way he wouldn't look as pathetic as he felt going to eat ice cream just to spend a little time with Hermione Granger.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Hermione had arrived early, so she was sitting at her favorite table, the one facing the afternoon sunlight, when Harry walked in. After Fortescue's had been destroyed in the war, a distant relative decided to reopen it under the name Forever Fortescue's, and out of respect for the man that had been so kind to Harry as a child, Harry made it a point to eat there regularly.

Of course, it didn't hurt that they had the best ice cream—magical or otherwise—in all of England. Even Hermione, who didn't have much of a sweet tooth, sometimes found herself craving some of the flavors from the secret recipe book of the Fortescue family.

She had already gotten herself a bowl of Chocolate Fiendfyre (a sort of spicy cinnamon chocolate chipotle flavor), and was slowing making her way through it, making sure to savor every bite. There was no point waiting for the boys, as they would gobble theirs up so fast that Hermione would still be eating even if she started first.

With a sigh, she remembered that it was only Harry and her eating ice cream together now. Despite her current feelings towards Ron, it was hard to erase the memories of so many moments of friendship. Everywhere she looked, and even the time she spent with Harry, she was reminded of some aspect of their life together, whether it was their friendship or romantic relationship.

She put another spoonful of ice cream in her mouth as Harry came in and sat down.

"Hello, Hermione," he greeted her cheerfully. "Fiendfyre again?" A quick perusal of the menu was unnecessary, as Harry had it memorized, but he always checked, just in case.

"It's my favorite!" she mumbled around her mouthful of delicious ice cream that was both cold and hot at the same time, while Harry ordered three different flavors for himself.

Knowing that Harry had just announced Ron's resignation from being an Auror, Hermione carefully broached the subject. "How did the meeting go?" Even when they met regularly, it was rarely during the middle of the afternoon on a workday. But Harry had suggested it, and Hermione had figured she didn't have anything to lose by skiving off for a couple of hours. She also suspected that Harry needed some time out of the office.

The look on his face at her question confirmed it. He rolled his eyes a bit and shrugged. "Ron was there, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, trying not to prompt him into continuing.

"I'm happy for him, you know," Harry reminded her. But remembering, he backtracked, "Not about… You Know Who…"

"Is she not to be named, then?" Hermione asked, almost amused. "If we can call Voldemort by name, I imagine we can call Lavender Brown by name, too."

"Well," Harry conceded, "I mean, I'm not happy about…her." He still couldn't bring himself to say it; not directly to Hermione, anyway. "I just mean about the Cannons. He's always wanted to be a Quidditch player."

"I know," Hermione said quietly. She'd regularly listened to Ron rant and rave about how badly the Cannons needed a star quality player like him. She had never encouraged him, feeling that Quidditch player wasn't really as good of a career as an Auror. But she wasn't exactly surprised that he had decided to go for it. He probably felt that she had held him back their whole relationship. She also wasn't surprised the Cannons had hired him. They were truly an awful team.

Mixing the three flavors from the bowls in front of him, Harry filled his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I'm sure that he only ever planned on being an Auror so that we could be partners together. It was always my dream, never his."

Hermione nodded at this, catching the slightly melting bits on the edges of her ice cream with her spoon.

"I just…" Harry paused, ostensibly to shove more ice cream into his mouth, "…I guess I just didn't really think Ron would leave me, too."

"Harry," Hermione chided, her stomach churning a bit at the words about leaving. Technically, she had left Ron, but it was clearly obvious to everyone that she hadn't really done the leaving. "I'm sure it's not like that."

"I just don't know who he is anymore, Hermione." He swiped his hands through his hair, leaving it messier than it was. With a sigh, and another spoonful, he added, "I'm not really sure I care anymore."

"Harry," Hermione began a conversation they had already had several times. "You know that you can be friends with Ron. I understand that. Our relationship was between the two of us, and whether we succeeded or failed doesn't have to touch our individual friendships with you."

"It doesn't work that way," Harry said, like he always did, with a shake of his head and a gigantic bite of ice cream for punctuation. Hermione didn't want to feel that she was standing in the way of a legendary friendship, but it did make her feel good to have the assurance that Harry was still on her side. To be fair, she wasn't sure that she would be able to handle it if Harry and Ron resumed their previous closeness. She would try. But she was glad she didn't have to worry about that just yet.

At that moment, the door to Fortescue's opened and through the late afternoon sunlight it was hard to see the face of the person who walked in, but the bright glint off of platinum-white hair made his identity unmistakable. For the first time in a very long time, the unexpected sight didn't make her flash back to fears of seeing Lucius or other Death Eaters. Actually, she felt a moment of warmth for the man who used to be her childhood enemy.

She almost permitted a small smile to escape her as she thought about their escapade at the Ministry dinner. She'd actually had fun at one of those stuffy functions, and had been grateful for the brief distraction from her troubles.

Malfoy approached the table, startling her, and caused her heart to skip a nervous beat, wondering if he had come to talk to her.

"Hello, partner!" Harry stood, clapping him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion.

"He keeps calling me that," Draco said to Hermione, ignoring Harry's enthusiasm. The look of long-suffering on his face caused a genuine smile to appear on Hermione's.

"Take a seat!" Harry offered, placing a menu in front of him, while Draco stiffly sat at their little table. As Harry was sitting opposite Hermione, and the table was up against a window, he had no choice but to be the awkward third person in the middle of a table clearly meant for two.

He was just about to suggest moving to another table when Hermione exclaimed, "Partners!" Looking between the two of them, it was clear she found the idea highly amusing – the two least likely to get along in Hogwarts, suddenly partnered together to save Wizarding London? She tried to hide her smile and failed.

Draco placed an order for some ice cream and felt the need to point out, "I'll have you know, I never agreed to any of this."

Harry was still shoveling food in his mouth, and the somber mood from before seemed to have disappeared. With his mouth full, Harry argued, "You agreed to my reign—I mean, rules—when you joined my department, Malfoy."

With his arms crossed, Draco just stared at Harry. Harry gave him a grin and waved cheekily.

Hermione felt compelled to chime in. "Well, I think it will work out just brilliantly." At the disbelieving stare from both of the boys, she added, "If you don't kill each other, of course."

"Of course," Malfoy echoed.

"No, seriously," she continued. "You are both brilliant Aurors with a natural talent and quick on-your-feet thinking. I honestly don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"Well," Draco drawled, "Potter here seemed to have a life-partner in the Weasel, so that could be why."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick, uncomfortable glance before Harry looked down at his bowl. There was no time to respond as just then Harry announced, "Oh, Ginny wants to know if you're coming to dinner tonight."

Hermione paused, hesitant, and said, "Well, there's a sale at Flourish & Blotts today that I had wanted to check out." Her brow furrowed, clearly trying to come up with a way to do both.

Potter just laughed, and said, "Well then, we'd never get you out before closing time." He winked at her, and said, "Don't worry, I'll tell Ginny. She knows even Jamie can't compete with your books."

Playfully indignant, Hermione protested, "Well, that's not fair!" After a pause, she added, "Jamie might compete. But he's in bed by dinnertime, anyway."

Potter grinned at her, clearly agreeing with her assessment of baby Jamie's appeal. Then he said, "Ginny also says she needs me for something important, so I'm going to pop off and be right back!" He quickly got up from the table, scooting his chair backwards as he made his way back out the front door.

Curious, Hermione wondered aloud, "Oh, I wonder what that could be about?"

Draco added, "I didn't even see him receive a Patronus. Do you suppose the Potters have mastered telepathy?"

With a laugh, Hermione explained, "Oh, it's his wrist cuff. I had it charmed to work as kind of a two-way communication device. Ginny taps her wand to her matching cuff, and the message is relayed to Harry's. His cuff warms up briefly to let him know there's a message."

Thinking, Draco asked, "Wasn't that what you did back in fifth year with that Army thing?"

She was surprised that he remembered that. Slightly embarrassed, she answered, "Yes, actually. Only we used galleons, then. I wasn't quite as good at the charms at the time."

With a snort, he dismissed this claim. "You outsmarted adults three times your age and performed spells that were considered too advanced for a student. You were certainly quite good even at the time."

"Why thank you, Malfoy," she smiled. "It's nice to hear you say that after all these years."

Unsure of how to respond to her smile, and strangely needing to know, he asked her if she also sent special messages to Potter via his magic wrist cuff. He felt very much like an interloper in a web of intricate relationships that he could never truly hope to understand.

But she just shook her head and said, "Oh, no! Just Ginny and Ron." And then she must have felt the need to clarify because she added, "Ginny, of course, because he's his wife. And Ron, because he is—well, was—his Auror partner."

As she slowly started scooping out the sides of her bowl, she continued, "Ron only ever used it when they were in the field. He didn't even wear it unless he was in uniform. Said it was kind of like a leash or a tracking system and made him feel…" she paused, her spoon poised hesitantly before she took her bite, "…trapped."

There was a silence afterwards, one that Draco was unsure of how to alleviate. He wasn't socially skilled enough to determine if the silence was awkward or not. In his experience, all silences were either awkward or ominous, and as he didn't sense any danger, it was probably quite awkward. Normally, he wouldn't care. But Hermione seemed to be bothered by their subject, as if Ron's feelings of being trapped extended past the cuff to include his relationship with her. And Draco felt an unusual urge to soothe.

Without thinking, he asked, "Do you suppose Potter will make me wear one?"

Hermione looked at him, her expression unreadable as she replied a little sharply, "I'm sure he won't force you to remain in constant contact with him. He never forced Ron, either." With a shrug, she continued, "And if your partnership is just temporary, there'd be no real need for it. None of the other partners use them."

Of this, Draco was aware, since he had never even heard of the things until now. But he felt compelled to ask, "Why not, if it's such a good tool to have in the field?"

The slight scrunching of her eyebrows as she considered his question was made more adorable by the fact that she had chocolate ice cream on the side of her mouth. Draco very carefully kept his hands on the table to prevent him from reaching over to wipe it off, which distracted him long enough to miss the first part of her answer. "What?" he asked.

"Well, I can't be expected to just make them for everyone."

He shook his head and said, "No, I meant, what did you say before that?"

"I said, I guess because I never made any others." At his slightly thoughtful look, she added, "I only made the one set because Harry asked me to. No one else ever has."

Draco wasn't sure how many cuffs comprised a set, but had a burning desire to know if she and Ron had matching cuffs. And he felt his mouth opening to ask the question, even though he was trying to tell his brain that it was none of his business. "Did you have a cuff then, too?"

She looked askance at him, thinking she'd already answered that question. "No, I told you, just Harry connected to Ginny and Ron."

She was right. She had told him, and Draco felt a bit silly for needing to have the fact confirmed.

"Well, maybe I want one, then." The words left him feeling even more than a bit silly. It was a ridiculous request, but the idea of Potter being connected to his wife for love, and his partner for protection and friendship, was such an appealing idea. He had never once had a relationship, familial, romantic, platonic or otherwise, where his own safety and well-being was of such concern to anyone else. It was decidedly humiliating to think that he wanted anything similar to what Potter had, but a hitherto unacknowledged piece of himself was positively excited over the prospect of having a group to belong to. A group that included ridiculous matching cuffs. Of course, he only wanted one person on the other end of that cuff, and the idea of what it would be like to have Hermione sending him private messages tied his stomach into knots. There was no cure for it: he was going to have to leave or he was going to embarrass himself with such un-Malfoy-like behavior.

But before he could excuse himself and take his leave, Hermione responded to his question with, "Well, you could always ask Harry if you could wear Ron's. I'm sure he left it behind with his Auror equipment."

The flippant response suggesting that he not only wear, but _ask_ for something that had belonged to the Weasel, left him aghast with his mouth gaping open, the last spoonful of his own ice cream hovering in midair.

The appalled look on his face caused Hermione to convulse with laughter. With her spoon in her mouth, and the afternoon sunlight glinting off of her hair, Draco though she looked absolutely lovely, and felt rather proud to be able to make her laugh. He started to smile at her. But then he remembered why she was laughing, and what she had said, and he started frowning again.

This only made her laugh harder, the sounds ringing in the air. She shook her head and said, "I'm sorry. Of course. What was I thinking?" She giggled again. "I'll talk to Harry, and if he thinks it's a good idea, I'll make you one." More giggles. "Lots of old-fashioned ornate designs, befitting your pure-blood status."

As she was clearly making fun of him, he made a face at her suggestion and demanded she make it plain and silver. Unless it was black. Although, the Malfoy crest or the Slytherin insignia would not be amiss, of course.

His comments just made her keep laughing. Unsure of what to make of the sudden change in atmosphere, but feeling a lightness in his chest at her company, he decided it really was time for him to go back to work. And come to think of it, where had Potter gone? Had he really just left him there?

"I'd better go back and check if Potter needs rescuing," he told Hermione as he stood up, and she saluted him with her spoon, still laughing quietly to herself.

He rolled his eyes as he walked away and Hermione congratulated herself on predicting correctly that she would still be the last one to finish her ice cream. As she finished off the very last bite, she was still smiling and thinking of how she could customize a communication cuff that was perfectly acceptable to a hard-to-please Malfoy. The idea of a little stylized ferret engraved on the top made her burst out laughing again as she imagined the face Draco would make if she presented him with it.

Feeling considerably lighter than she had upon entering, Hermione exited Fortescue's and made her way back to finishing up her own afternoon.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Draco didn't know why he was there. Well, no, he _did_ know why he was there. There was a sale, after all. And he liked books, too. Of course, he had a gigantic library full of books, many of which he hadn't even read, so it wasn't like he needed any more. But a book sale surely couldn't be passed up. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he had it on relatively good authority (since she had said so herself) that Hermione would be there, probably all evening, shopping for books.

He could shop for books whenever he wanted, too. She didn't own the bookshop.

Actually, _he_ owned the bookshop. Well, technically, the families of Flourish and Blotts owned it, but he was a major investor. After the war, the bookshop had sadly suffered, like many businesses in Diagon Alley. Unwilling to see it struggle through the recovery period after the war, Draco had channeled thousands of Galleons into the rebuilding and restoring of the quality and quantity of books available once his funds were released to him. After all, when knowledge is scarce or hard to attain the cost to society is always prejudice based on ignorance, a situation which the newly reformed Draco Malfoy found to be intolerable. Flourish  & Blotts actually sported a new and robust section on Muggle lifestyle and literature, after a suggestion he had made that had nearly caused the elderly manager onsite to expire of shock right on the spot.

To his chagrin, after recovering from the surprise, both Mr. Bellish and his assistant, Mr. Peck, seemed inordinately proud of him, even more so than when he had arranged their business partnership with Draco as a financial backer. Now they welcomed him rather effusively whenever he came into the shop. It was embarrassing, so Draco frequently placed his orders via owl rather than stepping into the shop and having to see their insufferably large smiles and enduring the affectionate slaps on the back.

Fortunately, all the to-do—the greetings, the offers to find books for him, the brief reports of the business' latest successes—had all been finished before Hermione had stepped into the shop. When she finally chanced upon him, a stack of book in her arms, he was browsing one of the aisles like a normal patron.

"Oh, Malfoy!" she exclaimed, clearly pleased to see him. "Couldn't pass up a sale on books, I see?"

He smiled politely at that. He was Draco Malfoy; he didn't even pay attention to the prices of books when he bought them. But there was no need to remind her of that.

"Have you been here long?" she asked, looking down at his arms, which clearly did not hold any books. "I've only been here a few minutes, and I've already found a dozen books I've been wanting."

Draco already knew this. He knew the moment she walked in, her hair loose and windblown from the strong breezes outside the shop, her eyes bright and seeing nothing but the books all around her. He hadn't known what to say or how to make his presence known, so he resolved to just browse and knew that with her thoroughness, she would bump into him sooner or later.

He didn't answer her question, instead telling her, "You know, you can send your books to the counter so you don't have to carry them."

Hermione seemed surprised to hear this and looked conspicuously around at the other patrons, all of whom were carrying stacks of books in their arms.

Draco grinned at her, knowing that she doubted his word but that she also had no way of knowing that he wasn't telling the truth. He said, "Come on," and grabbed her elbow, walking her towards the front.

"Mr. Bellish," he said, formally, trying to ignore the large grin on Mr. Bellish's face at seeing Draco in the company of such an esteemed personage as Ms. Hermione Granger. "Ms. Granger would like to leave her purchases here at the counter so she can continue to shop unencumbered. Can you please set these aside for her?"

Mr. Bellish gladly took the books out of Hermione's arms. "Of course, of course, Mr. Malfoy! Ms. Granger, so lovely to see you back here again! Send all your books back to the counter and they will be waiting for you when you are done shopping!" He was speaking to Hermione but was grinning at Draco. What he was so pleased about, Draco didn't want to imagine.

Once relieved of her burden, Hermione was excited to see a little gilt-edged card with her name on it magically placed on top of her pile of books. She didn't notice the glances Draco exchanged with Mr. Bellish, or the small crest that appeared on the corner of her card as she walked away, indicating the books had already been paid for. She also didn't notice the way Draco's shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to ward off the inane grin being shot at his back by the highly amused bookkeeper. Especially when said bookkeeper mentioned to their retreating backs, "Don't forget to check out the new section with recent Muggle literature!"

Draco grimaced at this, hoping the comment wouldn't be followed by one indicating that the section had been developed at his suggestion. Hermione must have taken the look the wrong way, because she immediately leapt to the defense of the books in question. "Oh, but Muggle literature is vastly entertaining! Their style and use of words and writing make a fun and sometimes beautiful art form out of what we might normally consider an uninspired and unpalatable plot and characters."

He knew that. Actually, he had a whole collection of books by one Clive Cussler. While he generally thought that most of his books should be utterly ridiculous (based on the summary on the back cover), he had found himself enthralled with the adventures, particularly, of the ridiculously named Dirk Pitt.

Still, he let Hermione drag him to the new section and didn't dare interrupt while she waxed poetic about the various attributes of several of her most favorite authors. The pile of books on the countertop steadily kept growing, and Draco actually found himself looking forward to reading several of her suggestions.

He had doubts about one Robert Jordan, as each of the books seemed inordinately long, and he was certain the man could know nothing of true magic, rendering the reading insufferable and insufferably unending. But Hermione's enthusiasm convinced him to purchase the entire set, and the look on her face when she told him he had to be sure to tell her what he thought of them as he was reading, ensured he would, in fact, read all of them. And probably right away.

Hermione truly loved books of all kinds. Her interests were wide and varied, and she might pick up a book simply for having a beautiful binding. He was fascinated with watching her choose, and could find no rhyme or reason to which books she sent to the front and which she replaced on the shelf. Sometimes, she opened a book and spent several minutes reading the first chapter or the reviews. Frequently, she just grabbed a book off the shelf and simply sent it to the counter. More than once she would trace the gilt lettering on the cover and smile a small smile to herself. He noticed she particularly would do this in the Muggle classics section. He wanted to ask about each one, but since it seemed very personal to her, he simply noted the titles for another conversation.

In the sections with recent findings and discoveries in Potions and Transfigurations, they got into several arguments on the validity of the researchers' methods and ethics. Hermione continued to advocate for the rights and dignities of all living creatures, magical, sentient or otherwise, and Draco generally sided with the need for solutions and answers for the Wizarding World. During one particularly heated moment, Hermione slapped a book against his chest and suggested he read it before spouting any more ignorant ideas.

He just grinned at the fire in her eyes, enjoying baiting her about subjects she was so passionate about. And the book went to the very top of the pile of books with his name on it at the front counter. It looked like Robert Jordan and his time wheels would have to wait.

It was late in the evening when the announcement was made that Flourish & Blotts would soon be closing, and Hermione and Draco came out of the conversation they'd been absorbed in, this time on the preservation of Wizarding World rituals and customs. Strangely, they were on the wrong sides of the conversation; Draco leaned more towards forgetting the ugly past and moving forward into the future, but Hermione argued about the need to keep grounded in history, and to save what can be saved while modifying the beliefs that had caused such extreme damage. He was surprised, and touched, to hear her defend some of the ideas he had been raised with and had lately felt so ashamed of, simply for them being part of pure-blood culture.

But it was closing time, so Hermione sent one last book to the counter before they made their way to the front to finalize their purchases.

To her surprise, there was only the last book that she had sent on the counter. Mr. Bellish gave her a kind smile and said all her other books had already been boxed and sent to her home and that she would find them waiting there for her. He handed her the last book to take in her hands, and stunned, she protested, "But I haven't paid yet."

Mr. Bellish just waved it off with a twinkle in his eye, "Oh, the proper accounts have already been charged. Go home and enjoy your new books. Just don't forget to come up for air and eat sometimes."

She smiled at him, placing her last book into her bag. "Of course! Goodnight, and thank you for your wonderful selection of books."

Turning to Draco, Mr. Bellish said, "And Mr. Malfoy, we hope to welcome you here again very soon. It has been too long between visits!"

Draco acknowledged this with a slight incline of his head. But then Mr. Bellish added, "And be sure the young lady arrives home safely," and Draco had to prevent a scowl from forming on his face, lest Hermione think it was because of her. Meddling bookshop owners.

As they left out the door—together—Mr. Bellish turned to Mr. Peck who closed the door behind them, and said, "It does warm my heart, Mr. Peck, to see young Malfoy with a friend."

Mr. Peck snorted at that, and said, "More than a friend, it seems to me."

Mr. Bellish just smiled, pleased, and replied, "I do hope so, Mr. Peck. I do hope so." As he turned back to the till, he added, "Especially as she's a rather expensive book buyer." They both laughed at that, enjoying how their two best customers had outdone even themselves by shopping together.

Once arriving home, after Draco had responsibly made sure she arrived safely at the apparition point, Hermione was excited to see so many large boxes of books waiting for her. She couldn't wait to dive in and enjoy her weekend with some new and old friends. But first she checked her vault account to confirm the damage she had done, and was surprised to see there were no charges from Flourish & Blotts except for the book in her hands.

Confused, she began to open all the boxes of books to see if there was a receipt inside. At the very bottom of the very last box she found a card with the Malfoy crest on it. Turning it over, she read the note that said, "You'd better read all of these, Granger, or I'm putting them in my own library."

She sat on her wood floor, slightly stunned. Draco Malfoy had just bought her several hundred Galleons' worth of books.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Hermione agonized the whole weekend over what she would say to Draco Malfoy. Her initial instinct was to owl him payment for all of the books and refuse the generous gift. Not only was she paid a decent salary at the Ministry, she also had quite a sum left over from the reward given to her at the end of the war. Since she had very little to spend it on, it had mostly just sat around accumulating interest in her vault at Gringotts.

But as she prepared the note, she grew increasingly concerned that Malfoy would see her rejection of his gift as an insult. Hermione wouldn't go so far as to say that Malfoy never did anything nice for anyone, but the words 'rarely', 'infrequently' and 'irregularly' crossed her mind, and so she thought twice about an outright rejection.

Malfoy acted like he didn't care about what anyone else thought. He moved through life with the same casual indifference to others that had made his father so formidable. He didn't throw his money or his family name (or his blood status) around like he used to when they were younger, but he carried himself with an easy self-possession that the less perceptive might actually label self-importance.

Still, Hermione had sometimes seen something in his clear, silver eyes in unguarded moments that made her think there was a real, deep-feeling person inside; a person who took his job seriously, a person who felt the stigma from his past coloring his present, a person who could be sympathetic and kind when no one else was watching. And if this person bought her a preposterous amount of books as a gift, she couldn't bring herself to say no. She rather thought that, as inconceivable as it seemed, if she gave them back or insisted on paying for them herself, she would hurt his feelings.

She wasn't sure exactly when they had become friends. Her first thought was the Ministry dinner when he helped her fight through her very personal and very emotional demons. But no, it must have started much earlier than that. Somewhere in between the casual conversations, the polite arguments and the snarky comments, she had become friends with Draco Malfoy. She felt like she should be shocked, but actually, she felt a warmth rising inside her as she realized that she had a friend who was all her own, and it wasn't because she was friends with Harry Potter (in fact, it might be more despite that fact).

After coming to this reality-altering conclusion, she started to write a thank you-note several times. Only how do you thank someone for being your friend, which is really what it all came down to? With the amount of galleons Malfoy had he probably wouldn't even miss the paltry sum he had spent on her. And with those thoughts in mind, every draft she began was discarded partway through, as no words seemed adequate to describe her gratitude not just for the books, but for the sentiment behind them.

So on Monday morning, she nervously walked over to the Auror department and knocked on Draco's office door with a paper-wrapped package in her hands. He was sitting at his desk reviewing what looked like counterspells, but he looked up immediately when she entered. She rather thought he was pleased to see her, and when he slowly smiled at her in welcome, the nervousness in her stomach immediately dissipated and she grinned at him.

"I've brought you something," she announced without preamble, setting her rectangular gift on his desktop.

Eyeing it appraisingly, Draco said, "Let me guess, it's a book.

"No, actually, it's several hundred galleons worth of books. Surprise!" Suspicious, and alarmed, he looked questioningly at her, and she laughed at him. "No, I'm not returning the books. Really, you made the mistake of letting me keep them in my home, so they are certainly going to remain there. I've already alphabetized them. But I did get you a book."

She motioned at him to open it, and he did so, feeling giddy at the thought that she had brought him a gift and feeling silly for feeling giddy. Malfoys, as a rule, were never giddy. About anything. Ever.

Once the paper wrapping was off, he saw that it was a battered copy of a book called _Pride and Prejudice_. The binding was in need of repair and the pages were bent in several places, as if marked for later reading. Draco could only assume it was meant to be that way, since the brightest witch of the age certainly had the knowledge and the power to fix it.

"It's my favorite book," she said by way of explanation. "It's a Muggle book, but considered a classic. I'm not certain why it has always had a special place in my heart amongst all the other classics that I read, but something about Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennett always kept me enthralled."

At his questioning glance, she laughed and said, "They're the characters in the book. You'll see."

He slowly turned the book around, examining it curiously. "Why is the copy so dire-looking, Granger?"

"Because I've read it several times, Malfoy," she said exasperatedly. "I figured you could buy as many copies as you'd like. In fact, I have several other copies as well. But this is the one I always read, and you can't buy that."

He felt a slight tingle in his fingertips as he thought about her reading this book over and over again. It was imbued with her essence from the amount of times she'd held it in her hand. Hesitant, he asked,

"So is it on loan, then?"

She gave him a funny look. "No, Malfoy, I'm giving it to you. It's time to pass it on." She shrugged. "It's okay if you don't like it." She reached over the desk to take the book in her hands. "Look, you can just give it back if you want."

He held it above him and out of her reach. "No, I want it. I'll read it."

With a skeptical look she asked, "Are you sure? It's probably not the type of book you're used to reading."

He frowned at that. "I'm really not certain if I should feel insulted or not." Hermione just grinned at him. He added, "Besides, I think I've heard about this book. I've been meaning to read it sometime. I like books about zombies."

Confused, she said, "Zom—" before she cut herself off. Then she just shook her head and smiled and said, "Okay. Well, it's yours now."

He set it down carefully on the side of his desk, like he was unsure whether it was a dangerous artifact or a precious possession.

Her mission completed, Hermione set herself down in the chair in front of his desk and changed the subject. "So, are you playing in the Quidditch game tomorrow?" It was the annual game of the Auror Office versus the Hit Wizards. Hermione was not a big fan of Quidditch, but she did usually try to make it out to this one game. It was always highly entertaining as there was a curious rivalry between the two groups. Each department thought they outranked the other and were more formidable at their jobs, and somehow, in the manner of most Quidditch fans, they felt this question of superiority was always best decided on the Quidditch pitch. She wasn't sure why they bothered to continue playing as the Aurors had always won once Harry became their Seeker.

With an eyebrow raised, Draco asked, "Granger, have you ever seen me play in the Auror games?"

Come to think of it, she hadn't. Perhaps she had never noticed, as her attention was usually between Ron as Keeper and Harry as Seeker. "I thought you loved Quidditch, Malfoy?"

"I do, Granger. But I'm a Seeker. And the Aurors don't need a Seeker." This was an understatement, as not only didn't they need another Seeker, but they would probably violently protest the idea of having another one.

"And you couldn't play another position?" The solution seemed logical to Hermione.

With a noticeably neutral look on his face, Draco quietly said, "The other positions all require teamwork, Granger. Have you ever noticed that the other Aurors aren't too keen on thinking of me as a team member?"

It took her a moment to grasp what he was getting at. "But that's awful!" she exclaimed, once she understood. "They won't let you play?"

He grimaced at her description, as if the other toddlers weren't sharing their toys with him. "It's not that they won't let me play, Granger. They just aren't all too fond of the idea." Her mouth remained open and he rolled his eyes at her. "Yes, well, it's not far different from my views of working with them, so I really can't blame them."

"You don't mean that." She tilted her head, considering his words, feeling confident that she knew better.

"That I don't like working with them? Yes, I really do mean it."

"No," Hermione said, seriously, "that you wouldn't accept them as teammates."

With a sigh, Draco ran one hand through his hair. The platinum locks hovered in place for a moment before falling back over his face. "Granger, there are all kinds of teams. And in this case, it's just not worth the fuss to insist I be on this one." He shrugged again, trying to convey his lack of concern without words.

"Well, I understand they need a new Keeper this year," she jokingly suggested.

He shuddered in mock horror. "The day anyone calls me the replacement for Ron Weasley is the day I stop glamouring away my freckles."

"You have...? Oh, you!" And she laughed. Because the vision of Malfoy with freckles was so absurd that she just had to laugh. His complexion was far too flawless, his alabaster skin too perfect, to suffer the indignity of a single freckle, let alone the blasphemy of a whole cluster of them.

She watched him as he was struggling to keep the small grin off of his face because of his little joke, and she laughed again. Malfoy was generally rude and disrespectful, but she rather thought he was funny in a harmless sort of way. And he seemed less guarded around her—more willing to say things she didn't think he shared with anyone else.

So the invitation popped out of her mouth before she could second-guess herself. "You should come watch the game at least, even if you won't be playing in it. You can sit with Ginny and I."

He turned his clear, silver gaze on her and blinked slowly. She didn't know what to make of the expression on his face, as he had suddenly gone very still. Surely he wasn't that opposed to cheering on his own department in a public setting? Or maybe it was being seen with her—again—in a public setting? She felt a need to fill the silence, so she airily dismissed the tension that suddenly filled the room. "Ginny loves Quidditch and doesn't like to be interrupted from the game, but I can usually be depended on to have a conversation outside of the action."

When he still didn't respond, she grinned at him and said, "You can hold Baby Jamie, if you like. I'm his godmother, so I can distract Ginny long enough to put him in your arms."

The disgusted look came unbidden to his face, as Hermione had expected, and she just laughed at the reaction her suggestion had provoked.

"Thank you, Hermione," he drawled sarcastically, "But I do believe I will decline the offer of holding The Baby Who Lived to Eat, Poop and Burp up Unmentionable Substances."

"Ooh," she exclaimed, "a new title for him! Although quite descriptive, it seems a little unwieldy." She frowned in mock concentration, causing him to finally, finally relax and smile at her. His whole face changed when he smiled—he didn't seem to be trying so hard to hide himself from the rest of the world. She didn't realize her own smile changed in response, to something softer and warmer.

Slowly, he shook his head, like he couldn't believe what he was about to say. He looked up at her, his grey eyes catching her brown ones. "Okay, I'll go."

She was unsurprised when he held up his finger and added, "But I'm not holding the baby, I'm not cheering anyone on and I reserve the right to read my new book if things get boring or the company grows intolerable."

She just laughed at him again as she walked out the door, with an easy, "See you tomorrow, then, Malfoy."

But before she was out of earshot, he called out her name. Her first name. And though she'd heard it before, it was usually accompanied with a heavy dose of sarcasm or a sardonic tone. This time, it was just a question, and startled, she turned back and paused in the door. "Yes?"

He just looked at her for a moment, and then he said, "I think if I'm going to be suffering through whatever Muggle classic you've just unloaded on me, you can stop calling me by my family name. It's not like we're still in school."

She hadn't really given it much thought. Surely she didn't always call him by his last name, did she? Shrugging, she agreed, "Okay, Malfoy." Then, she quickly corrected herself. "I mean, Draco." And it might have been her imagination coupled with a sudden feeling of self-consciousness, but she was almost sure she saw a glint in his eyes. A shiver ran down her spine.

As she walked out, she mouthed his name several times to herself. _Draco, Draco, Draco_. It felt odd. Almost too familiar. But there was no good reason for her to be calling him Malfoy all the time, so she resolved to remember to call him by his first name, as if they were really friends. Which, she guessed, they must be now. _Draco, Draco, Draco_. She got another shiver down her spine. Definitely odd.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Do you think he'll actually come?"

Ginny was rocking Baby Jamie in her arms, her eyes focused on the Quidditch pitch where Harry was speaking to his team (presumably inspiring them, as he was wont to do whenever peoples gathered around him). Ginny hadn't specified whom she was talking about, but Hermione knew, of course.

"He said he would, Gin," Hermione reminded her. "I'm sorry I invited him to sit with us, though." Realizing this was giving the wrong impression, she quickly added, "I mean, without checking with you first. You don't mind, do you?"

When Ginny didn't answer quickly enough, Hermione, who was trying not to let on that she was more than a bit nervous, continued, "It just sort of came out when he said he wasn't going to come because no one liked him and he had no friends." Hermione frowned, thinking that she was definitely giving Ginny the wrong impression now.

Ginny laughed, causing Jamie to gurgle at her happily. "He did not say that no one liked him and he had no friends! As self-aware as he is, I doubt he's _that_ aware."

Hermione nudged her with her elbow. "Gin!" she chastised. "That's not what I meant. And he _did_ say that he wouldn't play on the team because the other Aurors wouldn't have him. And I just thought…" She trailed off, not entirely sure what she had been thinking when she invited him.

Ginny looked over at her, noticed the slight frown marring her features and said, "You thought you could use another person who wasn't thrilled to be at the game to keep you company." It was no secret that Hermione wasn't a big Quidditch fan.

After sharing a grin over that thought, Hermione repeated her question. "You don't mind, though, do you?" It wasn't like she could un-invite him at this point, but it was important that she still knew the answer.

Ginny sighed, cuddling Baby Jamie close. Finally she said, "All the problems I've ever had with Malfoy are old. As real as they were, they're in the past now. It's a little strange to think it, but he's my husband's Auror partner, and he seems to be friends with you, too. So that's good enough for me. Of course, if he insults me, my hair, my family, Harry, Godric Gryffindor or, Merlin forbid, Baby Jamie, I'm going to Bat-Bogey hex him again, no questions asked."

From behind them came a noticeably amused voice. "That's quite a list there."

Hermione looked back to see Draco in his regular black robes, his platinum hair a beacon in the sunlight. Her eyes lit up, even as she quickly retraced their conversation in her mind and hoped that he hadn't been close enough to hear the entire thing.

As he approached them and awkwardly took a seat next to Hermione, Ginny leaned around her to look him in the eye and said, "If you call me She-Weasel, I will call you Ferret. I just want to set some ground rules."

Draco looked at Hermione, and seeing the amusement on her face, he pretended to give Ginny's ultimatum serious consideration. Then he asked, "What if I call you She-Potter?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed at him, and as she shifted Baby Jamie to the side furthest from him (and out of the line of wandfire), he grinned at her and corrected himself. "Mrs. Potter it is, then!"

Ginny sniffed at that but couldn't help the slight twitch of her lips. She noticed Hermione was outright grinning, and seeing her friend in such high spirits did much to alleviate her concerns. After all, the day was fair, the outlook for the game was positive (alarmingly so), and between Baby Jamie and the two sitting next to her looking like they were on the verge of blithering like idiots, it would be hard to keep up a good mad (let alone a frivolous one). So Ginny sat back to watch the game.

Harry took to the sky right away, his eyes trying to spot the Golden Snitch in the sunlight. The rivalry between the two departments was obvious in the immediate aggressive action between both teams. The Beaters seemed out to maim someone, and all the players were playing their respective positions with gusto. It seemed that the Hit-Wizards were determined (in a futile sort of way) to end their long losing drought against the Aurors.

It wasn't that long ago that Ginny had been a key player for the Holyhead Harpies. Bold and reckless, she made a great Chaser, and it was with great difficulty that she left the team for a season or two as she and Harry made the decision to start a family. She still played in the family games, of course, and sometimes she and Harry would race each other, but she missed the feel of the wind in her hair and the adrenaline directing her broom. Ginny thrived on the energy of the game.

That was not the case for the two sitting beside her. Caught up in the exciting beginning of the game, as both sides came out fighting (a turn of phrase she didn't understand as no one came out from anywhere), it wasn't until after the Aurors began to pull ahead that she tuned into the conversation happening around her.

She was surprised that Malfoy wasn't as keen on the game as she was. He was known to be a huge Quidditch fan. But then again, maybe it was easier to watch when you didn't feel like your team had slighted you by not asking you to play. Then again (again), Ginny thought to herself, maybe the company was distracting enough that even Malfoy would forget the game going on around him.

"Apparently," Draco was saying, "there's a version with zombies, and my enthusiasm was from my impression that this was that version." He had pulled a rather run-down book out of his robe and was waving it in the air for punctuation.

Hermione was laughing, and since Draco was not, Ginny could only assume that she was laughing _at_ Draco and not _with_ him. Still, he did not seem that put out. Frankly, Ginny thought he might be enjoying it—a turn of events she had not expected. But then everything about Draco Malfoy sitting with them at a Quidditch game was beyond what she had expected in her life. She made a face at Baby Jamie who nodded, as if in agreement.

The Auror's new Keeper made a great block right at that moment, causing the crowd to roar and Ginny to jump to her feet cheering. She shouldn't admit it, but the new guy was much better than Ron ever was. Ginny had plenty of family loyalty, but Quidditch was Quidditch. Plus, Ron was still not in her good graces.

Even though everyone else around them had jumped to their feet, Hermione and Draco had not, engrossed as they were in their conversation.

"It seems to me," Draco said loftily (when the crowd subsided and Ginny could hear them again), "that they are both full of pride _and_ prejudice."

Taken aback at this surprisingly insightful observation, Hermione responded, "Yes, I think that's the point. Both characters have to overcome their preconceived notions, which is a challenge even harder than going against society's expectations, because the fight we fight internally for self and identity is harder than anything that can be thrown at us externally." Hermione blinked, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, as if she was just hearing what she said.

"Well," Draco continued, "I think they were both being overrun by their own useless fears. And if Elizabeth was so smart and discerning, then why did she listen to that Wicket character—"

"Wickham," Hermione corrected, uselessly.

"—in the first place? I could tell he was dodgy from the first page he showed up. I hope the zombies got him in the other version."

Bless them, thought Ginny, they really were talking about a book at a Quidditch game! And one that didn't even include zombies. She shook her head at them, but of course, they didn't notice.

There was a moment of quiet (not on the pitch, of course) as Hermione thought about her answer. Finally, she said, quietly, "Character flaw. She saw what she wanted to see—a flaw she had to overcome if she was going to really see Darcy for who he was."

The silence afterwards was more awkward, and Ginny, who hadn't even read the book and had no idea what they were talking about, was on the edge of her seat. (The lead the Aurors had over the Hit-Wizards was steadily increasing, and Harry was still zooming around doing his thing, so she was naturally drawn to where the tension was higher, which seemed to be right next to her.)

"So, this Darcy," Draco said, when the moment had dragged on long enough, "is he why you read this book so many times that the cover got worn?"

Oh, that's why Ginny thought she recognized the book! It must be the same one she'd seen Hermione lugging around time and again. She must have let Draco have it. And there's a new idea! Hermione was forever trying to get people to read her books, but up until now, she didn't think anyone had. Except for Harry, of course, who now had the habit of saying something about wheels weaving things whenever something unexpected happened.

Surprised at the change of subject, Hermione said, "No, actually. Darcy's quite a pain in the arse for most of the book. I spend much time groaning over his stupid, self-righteous remarks. Particularly his reasoning for breaking up poor Jane and Mr. Bingley. I always feel he deserves to lose Elizabeth over that." Seeing the wrinkling of Draco's forehead as he prepared to comment, she waved her hands. "He eventually redeems himself, of course. And that's fine. But I like Elizabeth. She's smart, she's strong, she's funny and I feel a bit of a kinship with her. She was an out-of-the-ordinary woman in a time where no one could appreciate her."

"And you feel like an out-of-the-ordinary woman that no one appreciates," Draco finished for her, his tone one that brooked no argument, his eyes locked on hers.

Just then, Ginny spotted a familiar redhead across the way, making their way over towards them. Her anger, always close to the surface (she was a ginger, after all), came zooming through her so fast she was surprised her fingers didn't shoot sparks. How dare he! He knew he wasn't to approach when Hermione was with them. And now she had to go head him off, and miss whatever was going to happen in the conversation next, which promised to be quite interesting. It was a shame Baby Jamie wasn't old enough to eavesdrop yet.

"Hermione," Ginny said, interrupting the silence, "hold Baby Jamie for a moment." She handed over her gurgling bundle of joy and marched down the bleachers with purpose.

Looking over at the direction Ginny was walking, and seeing who she was intercepting, Hermione's mind momentarily lost track of their conversation. She thought she was ready to face Ron, but really didn't want to have to do it here. She was relieved Ginny was going to send him away.

A chubby, wet hand in her peripheral vision brought her attention back to the present, and she resolved not to watch whatever was going to happen between the two siblings. Looking up at Draco, she saw that the situation had not escaped his notice, but he wasn't saying anything. He was just watching her, disconcertingly close.

She took a deep breath, and then turned to Baby Jamie, determined not to bring up Ron. "Hello, little lovey! Auntie Hermione has been ignoring you all afternoon, hasn't she?" She held him up to her face so she could kiss him on his nose. "Mummy had to leave real quick to go yell at Uncle Won-Won." Whoops, so much for not mentioning Ron. She darted a quick glance at Draco, who was still watching her.

Jamie opened up his mouth to make some kind of sound, but only a thin trail of saliva dribbled out. Wiping his mouth with his own shirt, Hermione turned him around to face the Quidditch pitch. "And…there's Daddy! I know it looks like he's flying uselessly in circles, but I promise it's very important."

"Hermione," Draco complained. "Don't say things like that or you're going to bias him against Quidditch. I'm sure neither Potter will appreciate that."

Rather than responding to his remark, Hermione continued to bounce Jamie and said, "See? Like I said, very important."

With a twinkle in her eyes, she suddenly looked up at Draco. "Hey, this is your chance! Quick, before Ginny gets back."

"What are you on about now?" he asked, trying to avoid what he was pretty sure was coming next.

"Baby Jamie," Hermione joked. "You could hold him real quick before Ginny gets back. She'll never even notice." She held the baby up in the air and wiggled him back and forth as if trying to tempt a child with a chocolate bar.

Draco held up his hands to ward her off. "No."

"Come on," she said, enjoying teasing him. "I won't tell."

"I told you I'm not going to hold a baby. And especially not _that_ one." His expression was one of general disgust.

Hermione turned Jamie back around to look him in the eye and said, sotto voce, "It's okay. Uncle Drakey just doesn't want to hold you right now." The words were out of her mouth before she thought twice about them, but then she noticed Draco's face frozen in horror.

His mouth was gaping open and there was a pause before he sputtered loudly, "No! Absolutely not."

"What?" She thought he meant holding the baby, which was a little bit of overkill since he'd already made his point. And she wasn't sure she'd actually give up the baby, anyway, since Ginny had told her (specifically) to watch him.

"Never." He emphasized the word, his familiar sneer back on his face.

The fervor with which he said that single word made Hermione think he was speaking of something else. The pieces finally clicked, and she said, "You mean 'Uncle Drakey'?" Even as the words came out of her mouth that second time, she realized they sounded ridiculous. She was almost tempted to giggle.

Draco said adamantly, "I will not ever be called by such a vile nickname, starting now. Actually, starting from my birth. And continuing with the subsequent lack of births of any brothers or sisters who could produce progeny that could conceivably refer to me by Uncle." Like many pure-bloods, except the prolific Weasleys, Draco was an only child, Hermione remembered. Like she was.

"Yes, well, I don't have any siblings, either," she reminded him, a little bit sadly. She looked at Jamie and Draco thought he could almost feel her desire to have a child one day. More than one. So they wouldn't be lonely, he imagined. Two (or more) bushy-haired know-it-all babies! The thought should have made him shudder, but it strangely made him want to smile.

Seeing his lips twitch, Hermione shook off the brief cloud and cooed at Jamie. "So Harry and Ginny are the closest I've got. And Baby Jamie here will just be the first of his siblings to call me Auntie." Baby Jamie gurgled at that and put a slobbery hand on her face, leaving a trail of wet on her cheek.

She playfully wrinkled her nose at his antics and scolded him, "James Sirius Potter!" Draco laughed at her expression, and braving the baby germs, he reached over to wipe her cheek clear. When his hand touched her face, she started in surprise. With her arms full of baby, she wasn't in a position to protest. His fingers were tender as he held her chin with one hand and rubbed the spittle off with the other. Her eyes met his over the top of the baby's head, and she felt shy and awkward at what she saw there. Something deep and dark, she thought.

But then Draco made an exaggerated expression of disgust as he wiped his hand on his robes, which caused Hermione to laugh, the nebulous thoughts dissipating like they hadn't even been there. In the warm sunshine, with a baby on her lap, it was easy for her to forget what she wasn't even certain she had seen.

It was much harder for Ginny, who was climbing the bleachers and was almost back to her seat, to forget. Especially seeing as how she had spent the whole afternoon looking for just such a sign.

Much later, after the Aurors had thoroughly trounced the Hit-Wizards with a 360-200 victory, and after a very tired Baby Jamie had been put to bed for the evening, Ginny mentioned her observations to her husband.

"You were right," she said, climbing into bed, as Harry continued staring down at his sleeping son, like he'd been doing for the past ten minutes. "There's something there. I'm not an expert, but I've never seen him act like that before. I'd wager it's because he's never acted like that in his whole life."

"Like what?" asked Harry. He was leaning on Jamie's crib, tracing a finger down his little arm, distant images of one day teaching his son how to catch a Golden Snitch flitting through his mind. He was only half listening to his wife.

She thought about her answer. "It's hard to describe it. Free, perhaps. Open. Tolerant." She thought back to the easy way Draco and Hermione had joked around. "He laughed, and it was real. He laughed a lot, actually. Maybe it's as simple as that." Remembering Draco's face as he watched Hermione, she added, mostly to herself, "Funny, I never really thought before about how lonely he must have been."

Harry nodded, Ginny's observations only confirming what he already knew. "He cares about her. And I'd say that's real, too."

With a wave of her hand, dismissing his words as not strong enough, Ginny said, "Oh, he's totally gone over her, that's for sure. He's trying to hide it, but every time he touches her or looks at her, it's like seeing his little Slytherin heart bleeding ichor all over his sleeve."

With a chuckle at the image and Ginny's misappropriation of Muggle metaphors, Harry gave Jamie a final pat and turned to climb into bed. "Does it worry you?"

The smile on Ginny's face quickly faded. "A little bit. Hermione's halfway gone, too. She just doesn't know it yet. Or she hasn't admitted it to herself."

With some bitterness, Harry said, "She might not even recognize the feeling of genuine affection at this point."

Lying next to him, Ginny nodded and put her head and a comforting hand on his chest. She was still hurt by her brother's callous mistreatment of her good friend, and her husband's best friend, as she knew Harry was, too. "That's the part that worries me. She's been hurt so much, already. I'm not sure if we ought to do something."

With this thought in mind, Harry pointed out, "Not much to do at the moment. We didn't do something when we could have before. With Ron." And she knew his inactivity when a friend was in trouble, even though it was only apparent in hindsight, continued to eat away at him. With a sigh, he continued, "But I don't want to get in the way. If I see something that worries me, I'll say something. But not yet."

After a few minutes of silence, while they each contemplated the ramifications of Hermione's budding romance, Ginny stated the obvious. "Ron's going to be a bear about this, you know."

"Yes, well, you know where Ron can stuff his bear bits." And with this decisive statement, he turned out the lights.

A/N: Things are starting to get good now. For anyone who likes to hate on Ron, tune in next chapter! Also, for everyone wondering when Hermione's going to get a clue…also, tune in next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It was Monday morning and the Auror Office was bustling with activity. Despite being partnered up again, Draco had not been forced to evacuate his office to mingle with the other partners in the main desk room. Instead, the Great Harry Potter had simply moved in with his own desk, bookshelf and Golden Snitch paperweight. Any thought Draco had of objecting was overruled quickly by the possibility that Potter would simply make him move back out into the big room with the masses. If Draco was going to have to regularly endure the company of an Auror, at least it was Potter, who (theoretically and figuratively, as well as literally) had a head on his shoulders. And he didn't whistle children's songs, the way that his last partner (whose name shall not be repeated) used to do during particularly quiet moments.

And so it was that Potter was in Draco's office ("our office") when _The Daily Prophet_ arrived. Though usually a paper of some repute, the _Prophet_ was not above printing social news (a.k.a. gossip) when the story was big enough and guaranteed to attract attention. The story on the front page that day was definitely big enough to warrant the paper's attention.

It was (thankfully) not in color, but even without the telltale orange hue Draco would recognize him by that cavalier Weasel-grin and the immediate sneer it engendered on his own face. So quick was Draco's reaction to the picture waving at him and Potter from the newspaper photo that he failed to immediately note the headline: 'The New Cannon's Keeper Has Found a Keeper!' What an awful headline. If Draco owned the _Prophet_ , he would have fired someone for that headline. Of course, if Draco owned the Prophet, he wouldn't have wasted an inch of space on relaying any news from Ron Weasley's life. Unless it was his obituary. Which, on second thought, didn't actually count.

Simpering next to Ron in an atrocious gown of some billowy material that wasn't content with simply swallowing her body—it appeared to be climbing into her hair, as well—was Lavender Brown. Or, as the caption read: 'The new Mr. & Mrs. Weasley'.

If Draco's sneer could have produced its own sneer, the world would have been treated to quite an amazing sight. He hadn't needed any further proof that Ron was stupider than he looked, but it now appeared to be printed right in front of him for the rest of magical society to see.

So involved with his own disparaging monologue was he that it took a moment for him to realize that Potter was cursing rather soundly. After throwing the paper down onto his desk, his partner furiously paced the small room, one hand running through his hair, causing it to stand on end. Draco didn't catch everything Potter was muttering to himself, but around the curse words he clearly heard, "That idiot" and "ass hat," which didn't make any sense, but surely was a reference to Ron. Unless he was talking about that billowy thing climbing up Lavender's head.

But when Potter said, "I need to go check on Hermione," Draco's mood went from disinterested irritation to sudden concern. Ron's spontaneous nuptials mattered very little to Draco, but for Hermione to hear very publically that her fiancé of only two months ago was suddenly married to someone else…well, he could understand the panicked look on Potter's face and felt a similar need to rush down two floors and several hundred yards west to the Department (for the Regulation and Control) of Magical Creatures.

As Potter jerked the door open, he was greeted by several paper inter-office memos. They were all addressed to him and immediately began unfolding as they reached their destination. They each had only one word scrawled on them: 'Stay', in Hermione's handwriting. Draco recognized her loopy 's' from the scroll conversation they'd had.

With each new memo unfolding, it was plain to see that Hermione knew what Potter's knee-jerk reaction would be and she did not want him to come to her, hence the clear, unambiguous dog commands.

Draco could tell that Potter was not pleased (the scowl on his face was almost scary, if Potter were capable of scary expressions), and Draco could see that he was considering running to her anyway. But it was hard to act like you didn't see two-dozen memos with the same message on them.

Hard, but not impossible. Because that was exactly what Draco was going to do.

He got up to leave, not feeling the need to explain his actions to Potter. But as he passed through the door, the strained look on Harry's face told him that he knew where he was headed. And that he wasn't happy with having to obey Hermione's restraining order.

Shaking off Potter's concern as being of little import, he headed downstairs. He had never been to Hermione's office, having had no previous professional reason to deal with her department, as well as every personal reason to avoid it. But like all good Aurors he knew the entire layout of the Ministry, including the quickest ways to get from one location to another.

When he reached her department, he rounded the last corridor silently and stopped short where he could observe Hermione. She was standing outside her office, talking with her assistant. As always, she was dressed professionally; a neatly tailored pleated skirt, a freshly starched and ironed blouse, hair as neat and orderly as her unmanageable curls could become. Though she was facing away from him, and though nothing seemed to be out of place, he could still tell that there was something wrong. It was the same battlefield instincts that made him a good Auror.

As she turned, reviewing a paper that was handed to her, he saw that she was too pale. The hand that brushed a curl out of her face was shaking, though she quickly hid it. She looked up at that moment and there was a blankness in her eyes that felt like a stab in his heart. Without planning his next move, he walked directly into the open office space. He didn't look at her, but he saw the surprise on her face when she registered his presence. It quickly turned to confusion as he walked right past her and entered her office without a word.

With a quick glance, he took in the entire room. There were tall bookshelves lining three of the four walls, filled with books and book-shaped bookends. The fourth wall was a large window. Not a real one, of course, as her office was deep in the centre of the Ministry, and none of the Ministry windows were real ones. But it had been charmed to show a peaceful verdant forest scene with dappled sunlight and charming shadows. It indicated that Hermione must have gotten in the good graces of a maintenance worker who would allow her to choose her own window scene, which was highly unusual.

Her desk was a tasteful light-colored wood, simple and elegant, with a comfortable chair behind it and a few in front of it, each a different size, presumably to accommodate different magical creatures. Draco opted to stand and brace himself against one of the bookcases as he examined the charmed window closer. The amount of detail indicated a very thorough and very powerful charm. It was also very green, Hermione's favorite color, and Draco found himself wondering idly if the window showed only that one scene or if that one was simply her favorite.

Behind him, he heard her excuse herself from her assistant, and then she walked in. Her eyes were still dark, her face pinched, and he felt that pang again, silently cursing Weasley for somehow managing to hurt her with everything that he did.

He noticed that she didn't close the door behind her. In a low voice, she said, "I told you both to stay. I'm fine!"

He didn't respond to either of her remarks. It was obvious that he had ignored the message of the first sentence, and that the second one was a lie. He just looked at her, his eyes holding hers, and it wasn't long before she broke the gaze, putting her hand up to her head to rub at her temple. Her hand shook again.

"I felt like taking a break." Technically, he wasn't lying.

"A break?" she gaped at him. "It's 10:00 on a Monday morning."

"I know that, Granger. But I could use a walk." Again, not technically a lie.

She frowned slightly, her forehead scrunching up. "So walk, Malfoy."

This time he grinned at her disarmingly and was pleased to see that after a moment, her frown lessened. "Come on, let's go for a walk."

"I can't just leave! I have work to do; it's Monday morning."

He expressed his disdain with a shrug and continued leaning against the bookshelf, looking at her.

It only took a minute to wear her down. She heaved a sigh, closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they looked tired and sad. "Fine, let's go for a walk." She motioned for him to lead the way and he walked out.

He led them silently through a shortcut into one of the gardens in the section of the Ministry that housed the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Because of the variety of situations the department had to deal with, there were several unusual sections that supplied resources to the teams, and there were several small gardens growing plants of varying degrees of danger. The one Draco chose was a pleasant and harmless garden with a ceiling charmed to provide the illusion of a sunny day and a pond with actual ducks. He had never learned what the ducks were for, but they seemed content to be there.

There was a walking path that circled the small pond and it was charmed to feel like you were walking a new route whichever way you went. Through silent agreement they started down the path. The first few times they walked around the pond very quickly. Though Draco initially set the pace, he had deliberately slowed his step, allowing Hermione to take the lead, and the pace she set was punishing. They were both breathing hard by the fifth time they rounded the fork that went directly to the pond.

Draco stopped abruptly and Hermione paused, as if just noticing that he was there. She walked back to him and almost angrily questioned, "What?"

He took deep, even breaths to oxygenate his limbs. He kept himself in good physical shape, so the brief exertion was not overly taxing—but he was about to make her very mad. "Do you have your wand?" he asked. He held out his hand as if he wanted to examine it.

Confused, she pulled it out and was startled when he quickly grabbed it out of her hand. There was no resistance since she'd been taken by surprise, but she recovered quickly and lunged ineffectively to grab it back. "Hey! Give me back my wand!"

But it was too late, Draco had taken her wand and secured it, quickly walking up the fork that would take him to the pond. She hurried after him, yelling at him to give back her wand. Her voice was climbing higher in pitch, the initial surprise wearing off and edging towards the panic that most wizards and witches feel when their wands were in the hands of another. She grabbed at his arm, but he shrugged her off easily, outpacing her so she'd have to run to keep up.

Without looking at her, he abruptly flicked his wand, and suddenly her words were silenced. She continued pulling at his arm, her legs moving quickly to keep up with the bruising pace he was setting, only now her words were swallowed up by the spell. She quickly realized that she had no voice and this only served to make her more irritated. She began yanking on his Auror robes, trying to gain his attention, her mouth working furiously, no doubt telling him off in no uncertain terms.

He thought he saw the word 'arse' come out of her mouth and he grinned at her. She looked so cute with her hair in disarray. Her skin had flushed with their exercise and her anger, chasing away that pallor that had worried him.

As they approached the pond, she managed to grab hold of his robes, and giving a mighty yank, he thought he heard a tearing sound. "Tsk, tsk, Granger," he teased, "you only had to ask to get me out of my robes."

This remark just fed the fire, as he'd intended, and she launched herself at him. He clearly remembered that punch she'd thrown, back in third year, so he was ready for her when her fist came flying out. He held her off easily, seeing as how he was battle-trained and outweighed her by a good three stone. Each time her hand came flying at him, he easily turned it aside, pushing slightly to keep her from getting too close so he wouldn't hurt her by accident.

She finally realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with attacking him and soon found herself pacing the bank of the pond. He could tell she was still cursing. Her hands were gesturing wildly (lots of recriminating pointing) and she appeared to be shouting more than a few ugly epithets.

There was a bench conveniently placed so that guests could sit and watch the ducks that swam in the pond. Draco decided to sit himself down and wait out her rage.

He noticed that she said, "Men!" several times and congratulated himself that she'd moved off the topic of his own transgressions to rail against the entire gender. It wouldn't be long now before she reached the real source of her anger.

He concentrated briefly and a pile of ugly china appeared close to her feet.

From her place pacing by the pond, she stopped and stared at the china. Then she turned to him, an expression of disgust and horror on her face. She angrily mimed one person pouring tea for another person, indicating adamantly that she absolutely was not going to do it.

Draco laughed. Though he didn't have a silencing spell on him, and she could hear him just fine, he mimed picking up a cup and dashing it to the ground. Then he stepped on the invisible pieces, grinding them into the dirt.

She picked up the message very quickly, and in her anger, she grabbed a cup and two plates and threw them at him.

It was out of sheer reflex that Draco was able to counter her attack, dodging the china from left to right so it shattered against the bench. "Now, now, Hermione. I gave you all my best china."

Her only response was to throw another place setting at him. The next plate she grabbed she threw up against a tree, where it was followed by another teacup. The smashing sound was satisfying, particularly as she herself had been rendered silent, and so she did it again.

With each piece of broken pottery, the sounds seemed to release something inside of her. By the time she had broken the last piece, she was sobbing, one arm around her waist as if she was holding herself. He couldn't hear the sounds, but the tears streaking down her face almost made Draco feel guilty. Almost, because he knew she wasn't crying over him. The amusement he'd felt watching her smash the china quickly faded in the face of her pain.

He wanted to go to her—to have the right to take her in his arms and comfort her—but he didn't actually think she would accept it from him. So he waited, sitting on that bench, and she sat down on the earth, her silent sobs shaking her slight form.

Hunched over, with his arms braced on his legs, he waited, his heart beating hard in his chest.

Finally, the shaking seemed to slow until it stopped completely and he looked up to see her wiping her eyes. She held his gaze for only a moment before looking away, pushing her now-disheveled hair out of her face. He watched her take a few deep breaths, her eyes closed, before opening them again and slowly pushing herself to her feet.

With her hands, she uselessly wiped at the dirt on her skirt and then walked over to the bench he was sitting on. When she got there, she turned and sat next to him. Still not looking at him, she sat perfectly still. And so he waited some more.

It was several minutes later, with both of them just sitting in silence when she held out the hand that was closest to him. For one heart-stopping second he thought she wanted him to hold her hand, before he realized she was asking for her wand back.

A/N: Uh-oh. My chapter got too long and I had to break it in two. Oh no! I left you all hanging (and Hermione's hand hanging in the air, too!). Sorry about that. (#SorryNotSorry) But don't worry, this scene continues in the next chapter. And this is the last time we will mention Ron for several chapters. Next up, the clue-getting and finally some more obvious Dramione.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

She turned to meet his eyes and he was relieved to see that hers were no longer blank. They were the same warm, chocolate color that he loved. He smiled a small smile at her. She returned it, but just barely, her hand still out for her wand. And because she seemed back to herself, he gave it to her. She immediately pointed it at her head and spoke the _Finite_ to end the silencing spell. Of course, since no sound came out of her mouth, there was no result.

Drolly, she rolled her eyes at him, an expression of irritation on her face, and Draco laughed. He was about to use his own wand to end the spell when she cast the _Finite_ wordlessly, impressing him with her ability. The spell had been strong enough that she couldn't have ended it without her wand, but a regular witch or wizard would not have been able to end it wordlessly even with a wand. She didn't even seem fazed by the effort. Or she was high on all the china-smashing she'd just done.

"Well," was all she said, her wand once again secured on her person. She continued sitting, staring out at the pond and the ducks. "Was that your plan the whole time?" she finally asked.

"More or less," he answered. "You definitely Exceeded Expectations when you started throwing plates at me."

Her mouth twitched as she tried not to grin, remembering the surprise on his face as she almost beaned his platinum head. "Yes, well, you deserved it. Stealing my wand! Of all the terrible things."

"Are you going to hex me now?" he asked. He'd meant it as a joke, but he wasn't entirely sure that it was.

The look she gave him was very serious as she answered, "Maybe. I haven't decided yet."

It took some effort for him to turn from her and face forward again. The warrior in him didn't like to leave an enemy an opening for an attack. The strategist in him said she was less likely to retaliate if he gave her a show of trust. Hermione Granger usually liked to attack her problems head on. But then again, things had been very different for her lately.

He reminded her of that. "Do you remember what you told me when you saw me that day you came to see me? After…it happened." He didn't have to explain what event he meant. "You thanked me."

There was a brief moment of silence as she remembered. Then she said quietly, "I thanked you for your anger."

He nodded. His arms were resting lightly on his knees, and he resisted the impulse to fidget with his hands. "You wanted me to remind you…Remind you of when it's time to be angry." He looked at her directly now. "Today is one of those days."

Her eyes were bright with a film of unshed tears as she stared back at him. "I know," she whispered, and he almost didn't hear her, except he was completely attuned to every move she was making. She blinked and a few tears spilled over. She closed her eyes and he watched her as she took a few deep breaths and wiped the tears from her face.

"I know," she said again, stronger this time. "I was just trying to put it all aside so I could deal with it later. I didn't think it should bother me as much as it did."

"Of course it should bother you," Draco scoffed. "He married Lavender Brown. That would bother anyone."

The briefest of smiles flitted across her face. "You don't have to be mean to be angry."

He rolled his eyes at that. "Says the woman who threw hideous china plates at my face."

She smiled for real, then, but didn't say anything. There was a soft silence as they went back to staring out at the pond. Though the edge of her anger was spent, she wasn't quite ready to go back yet.

Finally, she broke the stillness. "I don't want him back." Draco kindly refrained from pointing out that it didn't look like that was really an option at this time, anyway. The thought of her back together with him turned his stomach.

She explained, "I mean, I'm not angry because I want him for myself. I'm not angry because I'm jealous thinking Lavender Brown has something I should have. I wouldn't take Ron Weasley back if he swore an Unbreakable Vow of monogamy to me."

As awkward as that sounded, it was a cheering thought. Draco had been trying not to wonder if she had been holding out hope that Ron would one day come back to her.

"It's just…" she paused, collecting herself again, "…it hurts me." Her hands folded over her heart, even though it was too late for her to protect it. "It hurts me to think of how much I put into that relationship. How much of myself I actually lost. How much time I wasted. How very foolish I was to believe that he truly loved me. And how even more foolish it was to believe he valued our relationship when he threw it away at the drop of a hat."

More like the dropping of some knickers, Draco thought, but again, he was wise enough to refrain from saying it.

"And then he goes and marries her." Hermione shook her head, like she truly couldn't believe it. "After two months of scandal, with no engagement, he makes her his wife. It's as if he's not even sorry." Her eyes were sad again. Though one part of Draco was elated that he was the one to hear her confession, another part was getting knotted up watching her hurt.

"It's as if…" she continued slowly, "…as if I never even mattered." She sighed. "Just poor, pathetic Hermione again. Left behind. Alone."

She looked up at him as she finished speaking. Her face was just so unhappy and Draco was getting so tired of having to hold himself back. She mattered to him. She may not have mattered enough to the Weasel, but she mattered very much to him. She was not alone.

And because she mattered, and because she'd just opened her heart to him, and (in hindsight) because her face was so close to his…Before he could think better of it, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers, softly, tenderly. A chaste kiss, meant to be comforting, nothing like the kisses he fantasized about planting all over her body. He couldn't stop himself.

He had only a second to savor the feel of her lips before he felt her pull back. Her eyes were wide with fear and anxiety, the chocolate depths seeming to spin with turmoil. Recognizing it, he mentally cursed himself. It was too soon. Of course it was too soon. It may have felt like eons of wanting and waiting to him but she hadn't even had those thoughts yet.

She bolted upright from the bench, looking every which way and gripping her wand tightly in her hand. She stammered out a quick, "I—I have to go," not even looking him in the eye.

After she'd left, he sat on the bench for a while longer, looking out at the ducks and berating himself.

~~~ooo~~~

She ran away. There was no getting around it.

She'd been lying in bed for the last couple of hours, staring at her ceiling, rerunning the scene in her head and there was no other description for her actions. He'd surprised her. She'd been completely unaware, completely unprepared, and when his lips descended on hers, she had the equivalent of a panic attack and ran away.

For the last few hours, she'd been trying to figure out why. Was she afraid of him? No, that couldn't be right. Was she afraid of what people would think? Doubtful, as recently she'd begun to care less and less what people thought. Was she afraid of the commitment? That one was a possibility, but one kiss, after all, wasn't really a commitment.

Was it too soon? Some might think so, but her relationship with Ron was definitely over (she had the newspaper article to prove it). And despite the fact that she was sitting out there on that bench because of his choices, he was the furthest thing from her mind when Draco's mouth had touched hers. So she didn't think that was the problem.

She sighed, rubbing her hands over her eyes. She'd had the same thoughts spinning in circles and didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

With her wand she conjured a few pretty paper birds and made them fly in intricate patterns. For some reason that always helped her think, as if they pushed her thoughts into order. As she watched them sparkling overhead, she started from the beginning again.

Was she afraid of him? No, she'd been over this. It seemed logical to think that she was afraid of him. He was Draco Malfoy, after all. Ten years ago, she had certainly been afraid of him. There were many who still were. He was definitely intimidating in his black Auror robes, a fierce expression on his face, his wand blazing.

She conjured up the image of him at his most fearsome and the trembling in her stomach was as far from fear as she could fathom. She didn't think she had anything to fear from Draco.

Closing her eyes and releasing the magic that created the birds, she replayed the scene in her mind. Draco had been sitting close to her, close enough that she could feel some of the warmth radiating from his body. Had she leaned into it, unconsciously?

She had been looking out at the water and had turned to see his reaction to what she had said. His face was so close that she'd been startled by how clear and bright his grey eyes were, forgetting what she had meant to say next. The thought crossed her mind that his face was really beautiful…and then he had kissed her and…and…and she had run away.

Placing a pillow over her face, she groaned into it. You only run away when you are afraid. So what was she afraid of?

Unbidden, she heard Lavender's voice again: "I see why Ron always found you so lacking."

The memory caused her stomach to twist, her embarrassment over Ron's assessment of her overshadowed only by her fear that he was right.

She wasn't afraid of Draco. She was afraid of herself. She was afraid that Ron was right—that she was a bookworm who could only ever be a sub-par woman. She was afraid that she would be disappointing. She was afraid to fail. Again.

She was disgusted with herself. After all the work she'd been doing to prove that Ron and Lavender's words had no basis in fact, she went and proved them right at the first opportunity. Why would a man, any man, want a woman who ran away from a kiss?

Exhausted and disheartened, she pulled the covers up over herself. When the blanket was tucked in under her chin, she sighed. The real question now was did she want a man to want her? Did she want Draco to kiss her again?

She closed her eyes and re-pictured the scene. What would have happened if she hadn't run away? She imagined the bench, the water, Draco sitting close to her. That moment when she looked into his eyes and everything around her disappeared. What if she'd kissed him back? What if his mouth had been on hers for more than just the briefest moment? What if he'd wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him? What if she'd let herself get lost in his taste? What if she'd let his hands roam over her body, exploring her?

Her eyes popped open, as her stomach tied into slippery knots. Her temperature spiked and she felt her palms dampen, her heart beating a fast, thrumming pace.

That answered that question. She wanted him to kiss her again. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was absolutely certain that was what she wanted.

Now she just had to fix it. Which was something she would have to do in the morning, since it was far too late for her to do anything but try to catch a few hours of sleep.

Pleased with her resolve, and feeling confident she would come up with a suitable plan, she drifted off to warm images of sunlight glinting off of platinum hair.

A/N: So let's just be done with Ron for now, shall we? I know people love a big to-do, but I don't really want to write that. I've got one coming several chapters later, but I just want to finally see these two make progress on the relationship part of this relationship. And I know you all thought Hermione was really going to let Draco have it once she had her wand back, didn't you? Haha! But even Hermione knows that Draco is always on her side. This chapter (two chapters, since it was split) obviously references the events/conversations of Chapters 2 & 3\. Anyway, since this story is supposed to be mostly fluff...expect more fluff, coming right up!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

She was a wreck. The confidence she'd felt late at night, tucked warmly into her safe bed, was gone.

Everyone at work had heard the news about Ron and Lavender and though they didn't bring the subject up to her, it was there in every room and in every corridor, every time she went by. She wanted to be able to wave it off as something that had left her unaffected, but she had been distracted and clumsy all morning. It was clear she hadn't had enough sleep and her nerves were stretched so tight she'd walked into a meeting without any of her files and the whole room had had to wait for her to go back and retrieve them. All her hard work to appear normal was slowly being eroded, because the truth of the matter was that she was a wreck.

But she didn't care at all about Ron and Lavender. She was a wreck because she knew she had to face Malfoy and couldn't bring herself to do it. She had thought she would see him first thing in the morning, talk to him and explain her actions from the day before. The trek from her office to the Auror offices was not very far and she had made it a thousand times, for far less important reasons. Still, she kept coming up with excuses of things that needed doing, even though she knew she was just putting it off because she didn't know how she was going to face him.

It was one thing to apologize for her reaction, friend to friend, something they could laugh off together. But she didn't want to stop there. Her introspection from the night before had made it very clear that her feelings had changed. (Grown? Developed, perhaps? Were they always there and she hadn't noticed?) She didn't just want to apologize for running away, she wanted to convey to him that she wasn't going to run the next time. That she wanted there to be a next time.

And just thinking about it was making her a nervous wreck.

 **ooo**

"Malfoy?" She knew he recognized the tentative voice at his door, even though the strained, squeaky sounds that came out of her mouth hadn't sounded anything like her. The wary surprise on his face told her he hadn't expected her to come. Had he written her off already? Just another failed experiment?

The heart already beating too loudly in her chest was on the verge of another panic attack when she calmed it down. No, just regular surprise. It was his office, after all, and she didn't actually have any business being there. Fortunately, Harry appeared to be nowhere in sight. So she walked in slowly, her eyes meeting his with some apprehension. There were several tense moments of silence while she fought her nerves to say the words that had been circling in her head.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," she blurted out, quickly. Too quickly, actually, as the words probably didn't make any sense without context. Still, she had started, so she needed to press on. "I didn't know—I didn't think—," she paused, and squeezed her eyes shut briefly in frustration. "I wasn't ready," she finished lamely, her eyes opening, large and vulnerable. So much for elegance and assurance.

When he didn't respond immediately, she added, stammering a bit, "Maybe—maybe we could try it again, another time." Draco's eyebrows shot upwards, and she fought the desire to giggle uncontrollably while she winced at her choice of words. "I didn't mean—what I meant was, maybe we could go on a date. When I'm more—Now that I'm…prepared." She could feel the heat in her face that meant her cheeks were definitely turning pink in embarrassment, but she forged on, taking a deep breath, as if gathering her Gryffindor courage.

"Do you feel like having dinner on Friday, Malfoy?" A pause. "With me, I mean," she clarified, unnecessarily. "Together." She vaguely thought she might want to die at that exact moment. He must think she was a basket case.

 **ooo**

He didn't know what to think. He was sure he had scared her away, and now here she was once again standing in his doorframe. And she was asking him out to dinner. He didn't respond right away—he couldn't—caught up with staring at her, wondering what was happening.

She repeated, self-consciously, "Draco?"

Hearing her say his name jogged him out of his stupor. "I'm free tonight." No time like the present. A Malfoy always presses the advantage. Friday was much too far away when she might run again.

Relief bloomed, lighting up her face, and he felt a shadow that he hadn't even been aware was hovering over his heart, suddenly lift.

"Oh, okay, yeah, I'm free tonight, too," she babbled. He saw the anxiety cross her features before she suppressed it. "I can do tonight." She said it like she was reassuring herself, and maybe she was. "Um, I'll think of a place and owl you?"

"Maybe someplace in Muggle London," he suggested, throwing her for a loop.

"Muggle London?" Her eyes widened, unsure if she'd heard him clearly.

He just shrugged, turning back to his paperwork, offering casually, "Someplace you'd be comfortable maybe." He was giving her control, putting her on her home territory. And away from the cameras. He saw when it clicked to her and she smiled widely, excited, "Okay, great, I know just the place!"

She turned to leave, saying, "So, see you tonight." Only it was more of a question, so Draco responded quietly. "See you tonight."

She walked out and Draco looked down at the paperwork that he had apparently just shuffled together from several different files. He hated paperwork.

 **ooo**

When he received her owl, it was with instructions to meet her in Diagon Alley at the Leaky Cauldron where they'd enter Muggle London together. It also said: 'Wear jeans slacks jeans something that doesn't scream "I'm a Malfoy, and you're a peasant."'

So he bought a pair of jeans. The fabric was rather stiff and unyielding and he wondered why anyone would want to wear something so rough so closely against their skin.

He changed his mind when he saw her. She was wearing jeans that molded to her legs, tapering to show off slim ankles in strappy sandals. She had her hands in her back pockets, waiting for him, and he felt it like a tangible thing in his heart, in his stomach, maybe a little lower, when she turned and smiled at him.

"Granger," he said, by way of greeting, aware that there were still curious eyes on them.

"Malfoy," she said, equally restrained. But then she grabbed his hand and yanked him through the portal. He followed with a short laugh.

On the other side, she energetically began walking in the direction of their destination, describing the place she was bringing him to. Draco briefly wished she would have kept her hand in his. No sooner had he thought that when he decided to do something about it. Matching his stride to hers, he casually grabbed her hand, noting with pleasure the fluttering heartbeat in her wrist that beat against his.

She looked up at him, mid-sentence, flustered into forgetting what she was saying. But she didn't yank her hand back. In fact, she slowed down her nervous steps and their walk became a stroll through twilit London.

In the silence that followed, her hand swinging lightly in his, he said, "What were you saying about the place we are going to?"

"I don't remember," she answered honestly. Her eyes widened slightly, aware that she was revealing how he affected her. He just grinned, delighted, and she added, "It's just a local pizza place, actually."

"That Muggle meat pie?" he asked, skeptically. "The kind they eat with their hands?"

She just laughed. "Yes, the very one. Although," she pointed out, "it doesn't have to have meat on it. The great thing about pizza is you can put whatever you like on it. Plus, if you insist on eating like a snob, you can always eat it with a fork and knife."

He seemed to give this due consideration and then declared, "I do believe I shall." He pointed at his attire. "I certainly didn't buy a pair of jeans to get them dirty with Muggle meat pie."

For some reason this set her off in gales of laughter. She didn't let go of his hand, but she put her other hand to her forehead. Her eyes darted to meet his, and at his questioning glance, she turned away, laughing even harder.

In his defense, he said, "You wrote to wear jeans. Even though it was crossed out, I can still read a word with a single line through it."

"I'm sorry," she apologized, her smile still wide on her face. "I did suggest jeans. And they are just right for the occasion."

He sniffed, slightly mollified.

She went on to explain, "Jeans are casual wear for Muggles. You wear them when working outside in your garden, when traveling, when attending sporting events. When you eat, it's not uncommon to wipe your hands on your jeans."

He looked at her, appalled, "Why would you ever wipe your hands on your trousers?"

She just shrugged. "They're jeans." Her free hand fluttered helplessly. "You don't try to keep them clean. You beat them up and then you wash them. And you repeat it until they have so many holes you have to get a new pair."

"Holes?" he repeated, baffled. "My opinion of Muggles is getting lower by the minute."

She snorted at that. "I thought your opinion of Muggles couldn't get any lower."

"Well, in recent years I'd revised my opinions. They produced you, after all, and that single fact can't be discounted." And there he mentioned it, though they'd carefully avoided pointing out her Muggle birth in all their conversations before.

Hermione looked up at him tentatively. "And that doesn't bother you at all?"

"What, that you're Muggle-born?" he asked. And when she nodded, he said, honestly, "It did, once, I think. A long time ago. But not for the reasons you'd think."

She silently urged him to continue, her eyes focused on his. He looked ahead at where they were walking, his hand still clutching hers, before continuing. "If you had been a pure-blood, it would have been easier when you bested me in nearly every subject. It wouldn't have been so embarrassing." She thought about this, perhaps understanding what he didn't say about the pressures from his family to perform as a Malfoy.

Then he added, "If you had been a pure-blood, it would have been easier to explain to myself why I watched you wherever you went. I wouldn't have felt so guilty." He had never told anyone that, though he suspected his father had guessed. But he was getting tired of beating around the bush. There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her and that was certainly as good a place to start as any.

Surprised at this, she asked, "You mean here at the Ministry?"

Turning to look at her directly, he said, "No, I mean at Hogwarts."

She gasped, disbelieving. "But you were so mean to me when we were young."

"Yes," he responded wryly. "Well, I imagine you've seen now where much of my anger stems from." He'd meant frustration and impatience. Selfishness, even.

But she said, "Protection." And then, as if putting the pieces of a puzzle together, "You were protecting yourself."

There was something very raw and real that resonated in him at those words. Was childhood Draco afraid of falling for Hermione Granger and instead lashed out at her at every opportunity? His voice was a little rough when he said, "Well, I was Draco Malfoy. And you were Hermione Granger. It was never going to work out, was it?" And there was something piercing in his chest, reminding him that the situation was not vastly different, even years later. He was still Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater. And she was still Hermione Granger, no description necessary.

But Hermione just squeezed his hand, her eyes warm, and said, "Oh, that never stops a Gryffindor from trying."

Knowing what she meant, he couldn't help but say, "I'm not a Gryffindor."

She grinned at him, "Fortunately for us both, I am."

 **ooo**

After the hilarious debacle of introducing Malfoy to pizza, wherein jeans and reputations were smeared, they walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, hand in hand, and made their way over to Hermione's flat. Not once had they lacked conversation and Hermione was trying desperately not to compare it to the sad silences and inattention she had been used to with Ron.

As they came to her door, she shyly asked, trying to pretend like her heart wasn't beating frantically in her chest, "Are you going to kiss me goodnight?" She had been imagining that too-brief kiss from yesterday all evening long, determined not to let it be the last time she felt his lips on hers.

"No," he said, smiling to himself at the confusion in her eyes.

She tried to cover her nerves by making a joke. "You don't kiss on the first date, Malfoy?"

He really laughed at that. "Granger, this was our eighth date."

"What?" She momentarily forgot the previous subject of a kiss to ponder this absurd statement. "I'd think I'd remember if we'd gone on seven other dates, Malfoy."

He leaned in to her, his silver eyes bright and amused as he told her quietly, "I'm going to kiss you next time, Hermione Granger. Count on it."

She shivered at his words, her eyes focused on his lips, uncertain how to tell him that she was pretty sure she wanted him to kiss her right then.

As he walked away, he turned back and said, "And don't forget to count the other seven dates, too."

"There weren't seven dates, Malfoy," she called out to him, irritated to see him grinning at her.

"Count them and see, Granger," was his only response, before he apparated away.

Inside her apartment, she shut the door, confused. The man hadn't kissed her, and the feeling of being all wound up for nothing had her almost as anxious as she had been the day before when he _had_ kissed her.

But then she remembered that he had said he would kiss her next time. He had told her there would be a next time. She closed her eyes at the giddy sensation that seemed to well up inside her from the thought that there would be another date with Draco Malfoy. She hadn't ruined everything by running away.

Collapsing tiredly on her couch, she stared up at the ceiling, replaying her date in her mind. He was arrogant, but he was kind. He was funny and incredibly smart. He was strong and sometimes had these dark depths that drew her to him in ways she hadn't even tried to understand yet.

And he was beautiful. More beautiful than a man had any right to be. His hair always fell perfectly to frame his face and when his incredible silver eyes focused on her, she felt like there was nothing else in the entire world that existed to him. And his mouth, which she remembered to be quite soft and warm…he said that next time he would kiss her with that mouth. She sighed, trying not to wish she didn't have only the memory of that brief moment by the pond.

Surely he wasn't counting that as a date, was he? How embarrassing. In her head, she ran over all of their encounters. There was the Ministry dinner, of course. Maybe the bookstore. The Auror game? She couldn't come up with any more. Seven?

She started back at the beginning. When she'd finally gotten their encounters to add up to seven, she'd realized something: Draco Malfoy had been dating her all along. When she'd thought he was just being friendly, he had always intended something more.

She finally gave in and giggled. She didn't know why she was laughing, but she hugged the throw pillow to herself and laughed until she sighed. For the first time in a long time, she felt good. And she knew it was all Draco Malfoy's fault.

 **ooo**

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I have a feeling the later half of this story is going to go slower than the first half did. My muse has been fickle, and so I've been writing scenes from chapters out of order, or even bits of other stories that I've started and left hanging. Never fear, I will definitely finish, as I've already written a good chunk of the ending chapters. But I've been having trouble working through the more troublesome plot bits, and so it will just have to come when it comes. But at least I leave you on a high note, this time. ;-)


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Hermione arrived at work the next day in high spirits, much to the surprise of her co-workers who only the day before had thought her emotionally devastated (again). She didn't feel the need to explain anything to anyone, though, and just breezed past them all with cheery greetings, intent on reaching her office where she would then apply herself enthusiastically to her stack of overdue paperwork.

Her heart was lighter. She finally felt that she had turned a corner in her life. The specter of her relationship with Ron was no longer taking up space in her head and it left her open and free to see something new and exciting right in front of her.

She smiled as she thought of Draco and their date the night before, and so she was smiling when she opened the door to her office to find an enormous bouquet of flowers sitting on her desk. Taken aback for a brief moment, she surmised Draco must have sent them (the deduction skills of the brightest witch of the age).

Her smile widening even further, she set her bags down by the door and quickly crossed the room to take the card that was propped up against the beautifully elegant green and gold vase. It had the initials 'DM' embossed on it, but nothing else. Surprised at the lack of a more profoundly worded note (or even a 'To: HG, From: DM' for clarity), she stood back to admire the blooms.

They were unusual; a blend of magical and non-magical flora. Rather than a simple collection of beautiful flowers, there was something almost intimidating about the power and intensity of the various stalks, leaves, vines and blossoms intricately arranged together. They couldn't rightly be called lovely, but they were fascinating and held the eye.

She was staring at the vase, the card in her hand, when her assistant, Melinda, walked in through the door with the schedule for the day.

Melinda stopped short when she saw what occupied the desk space where Hermione's inbox usually was. "Oh!" she breathed, her hand over her heart. She looked over at Hermione as if asking permission to approach, and then she reverently lifted a hand to gently touch a magnolia, the movement causing a sweet fragrance to stir in the air. Melinda was quite the romantic, despite being well advanced in age (or perhaps because of it, since youngsters these days really have no concept of romance). Hermione was fond of her, thinking of her almost like a grandmother, but she had never realized she had such a soft spot for flowers.

"Such eloquence," Melinda was saying. She was peering at one flower after the next, muttering to herself, a childlike look of glee on her face. "Subtle, but sure. Determined." She gave another sigh and Hermione looked at the flowers again, trying to see what Melinda was fawning over.

Finally, Melinda looked over at her, a slightly embarrassed tinge of color on her face. "I'm sorry, it's been such a long time. It's so rare to see a pure-blood adhering to the old ways anymore." She cast a last glance at the vase and then turned to give Hermione her full attention.

She must have noticed the slightly querying look on Hermione's face, but mistook the meaning, and said, "Well, of course, most of the pure-bloods have been doing away with some of the customs. Ever since the first Wizarding War, but especially in the years since." She looked at the flowers again and shook her head. "Such a shame."

When she looked at Hermione again, there was a twinkle in her eye. "So, who is he?" she teased. "Someone with more class, clearly, than the last pure-blood you'd taken up with." She sniffed disdainfully; Melinda's opinion of Ronald Weasley had always been less than approving, but he had recently sunk even lower in her already low estimation.

Curious, Hermione asked, "How do you know he's a pure-blood?" The card that came with the vase was still in her hands, the raised letters facing inwards against her palm. For some reason, she was reluctant to tell Melinda the identity of the sender of the flowers. There were some things she was still hoping to keep to herself.

Melinda smiled, pleased as always to be of some help. "Oh, you didn't see that one?" She pointed to a flower known as Mystic Merlin. It was nestled, interestingly, among several tentacles of Flitterbloom. "A Wizard's lineage. I've never seen it paired with these before, though. It means acceptance. Pride, maybe?" She digressed, thinking to herself. "He's paired your Muggle heritage with your Wizarding one and matched them both to his own." She shook her head again, "Like I said, very eloquent." Another sigh. Her eyes shifted over to Hermione's, a questioning look on her face, "Could it be…?"

But in the silence, it was clear that Hermione was not inclined to reveal any more about the mystery man's identity. Melinda just smiled to herself and patted the blooms one last time before turning to Hermione. "Don't mind me, dearie. I'm just curious." Then she pulled out the schedule and very professionally reminded Hermione of a few things that would need her attention that morning. But she still had a smile on her face as she waved goodbye to Hermione (and possibly the flowers) and left the office.

After she'd gone, Hermione looked thoughtfully at the floral arrangement sitting on her desk. Then, she carefully pulled out a sheet of paper. After writing a quick request, she sent it to be owled right away.

It wasn't long before she had her answer. She was thinking about the case file in front of her when there was a knock on her door, and a ginger head and the top half of a bald head popped through the open doorway.

The ginger head was Ginny, of course, and Baby Jamie was strapped to his mother's chest in one of those 'confounded Muggle contraptions'. With a cheery wave, Ginny walked in, shutting the door behind her and then stopping short in front of the desk, looking the flowers up and down.

"Blimey," she said in mock awe. "So that's what you meant when you said you needed help identifying some flowers. An odd request, I thought, but since Jamie and I weren't doing anything it seemed better than sitting around the house." She jiggled Jamie in his harness, and he seemed to be a little bit irritated that he couldn't see the flowers in question, being faced in the wrong direction. "I can't help you, though," she added, setting her bag down on one of the chairs and plopping unceremoniously down in the other one. "My family's never been one for the fancy ways."

Hermione forbore to state the obvious by agreeing with her. Instead, she asked, "Do all of the flowers mean something?"

With a shrug, Ginny answered, "Probably. They don't always. A few flowers here and there give some meaning, and that's usually enough. Knowing Malfoy, though, there's probably layers upon layers. Including…" and here she got up to approach the flowers again. There was a silence as she held Jamie's head with one hand and gently pushed aside a cluster of irises with the other, examining the space behind them.

"Yup," she said, triumphantly. "Found it." Hermione came around the desk to look.

The vines and twigs in the middle of the bouquet were carefully twisted around to form a clear space in the center, where there was a single, perfect, tiny red tulip.

"What does it mean?"

"It's the heart of the message, usually. Somewhere in the center. There's a lesser message up top with the daffodils, indicating a very high regard, although it sometimes means unrequited love."

"But what does this one mean? And why is it in that little cage?"

Looking at her, Ginny said, quietly, "It means he's declared himself. It's a formal statement of courtship. Very formal, actually. Usually more suited for an engagement bouquet." She parted the flowers so Hermione could see it better, carefully watching her face, and then continued, "And I imagine it's hidden in there—possibly even shrunken since it seems awfully small—because he's willing to wait until you're ready to accept it." She let the leaves go and they rustled back into place, hiding the little flower. She turned to sit back in the chair. "Who would've thought Malfoy would be such a romantic?"

Overwhelmed, Hermione tried to digest all the things Ginny had just said. Of all the questions running through her head, one was the easiest to ask: "How did you know it was Draco?"

Ginny just rolled her eyes. "Please. As if it could be anyone else. You just called him 'Draco,' for Merlin's sake!" As Hermione still seemed stunned, Ginny asked, "How many times have you seen him, anyway?"

"Eight," Hermione answered, without hesitation.

"Well, there you go!" Ginny figured that proved her point.

In the silence that followed, while Hermione contemplated her flowers and their layers of messages, Ginny watched her. Finally, she spoke what had been weighing on her mind. "Hermione," she began, "are you sure none of this," and she waved at the looming bouquet that symbolized Hermione's new relationship, "has anything to do with Ron?"

Confused, Hermione turned to face her. "What do you mean 'anything to do with Ron'? Why would it have anything to do with Ron?"

Ginny just shrugged, looking for the right words. She and Harry had said many words the night before, but none of them seemed right today. "I just mean, I know you must be in sh—surprised," she corrected herself, "about Ron and Lavender's announcement."

Walking over to the other chair, Hermione sat on the edge of it and thought for a second before replying. "I was very upset, at first." She shook her head quickly, to deny the obvious, "Not because I was jealous and certainly not because I want him back. It just made me feel very carelessly cast aside."

"And then Draco was there," Ginny surmised, trying not to sound like she was making a point. "Making you feel _not_ cast aside."

"Yes. But not like you think. I can be alone. In fact, I rather think I spent much of my relationship with Ron alone. I like having a friend, someone to talk to, and argue with, and Draco's good at being a friend. Well," she amended her statement, "he's good at being _my_ friend. And if we decide to make it more than that—"

"Which you have," Ginny wryly pointed out.

"—then it's because it feels right to us. Did the timing of it have anything to do with Ron marrying Lavender? I don't think so, but it might have. Still, I never would have gone out with him if I didn't actually want to go out with him, and not just a convenient guy who happens to be showing an interest in me when I might be vulnerable."

"Him, meaning Draco Malfoy?" Ginny repeated.

"Yes, that him."

"You can see why I have my doubts, though? It is Draco Malfoy we're talking about."

Hermione made a face. "Merlin, help me, I'm in a relationship with Draco Malfoy." She silently mouthed his name once more. Then they both laughed at how absurd that statement would once have been. They laughed, and then they laughed some more, releasing the tension of the last couple of days, until Ginny felt tears pricking the backs of her eyelids. She had so hoped to be able to truly call Hermione a sister one day. That chance was gone, but as Hermione seemed lighter and even happier, Ginny would not hesitate to let that dream fade, replaced by a much stronger one where Hermione truly met her match.

She went to pick up her bag, feeling she and Jamie were about done here, but Hermione stopped her before she could leave.

"Wait! Should I reply?" She meant the flowers, of course.

Ginny thought about that. "Usually, a witch wouldn't, so I doubt he's expecting you to. But there's nothing that says you can't."

"Okay," she said, her mind already working. And then she thought of one last thing, "Oh, do you suppose I ought to tell Harry?"

Ginny laughed as she and Jamie headed out the door. "Eight times, and you think Harry doesn't know?" With that parting remark, and a gurgle from Jamie, she was gone.

 **ooo**

It was not that long afterwards that an owl arrived at Flourish and Blotts. It was received by Mr. Bellish, and upon opening it, he called out to Mr. Peck in the sparsely populated bookshop. "Mr. Peck, it looks like we'll be wanting that book we set aside for Ms. Granger."

Mr. Peck nodded his acknowledgement and wrapped the book in paper to be sent back with the owl. "Good thing we had it in stock, then, isn't it?"

It was with a wide grin that Mr. Bellish sent it off to Hermione.

 **ooo**

Several hours later, Hermione had made very little progress on her case files but had succeeded in identifying every single one of the plants in her bouquet, thanks to the wonderful book _Efflorescent Expressions: The Wizard's Guide to Floral Symbolism for Special Occasions_. She discovered that Melinda was right: Draco was very eloquent. Her mind was reeling with thoughts and flowers.

She wondered if Ginny was right about whether she was just feeling lonely and longing for attention. But when she thought of Draco, of their time together, there was a rightness to it that she didn't think was faked or exaggerated. Maybe the timing was a bit inconvenient. She was sure many others would be thinking what Ginny had wondered, and perhaps not so kindly, either.

So she would just need to be sure and think through her decisions carefully.

Beginning with which flower she would send back to Draco. She was torn between three options: the simple white clover that requested he think of her, the sprig of jonquil flowers which indicated a return of his affections or a single lovely carnation that answered his unasked questions with a yes.

She wanted to acknowledge his gift, but rightly admitted that she was not ready to send off a masterpiece of meaning such as he had had delivered to her. But perhaps just a token, so that if he was sitting somewhere feeling like he'd just made himself vulnerable, she could put his mind at ease. She knew if it was her that she'd be very anxious to see how her gift was received.

After a few more minutes of contemplation, she decided on the jonquil, a flutter going through her as she thought of how she'd be opening herself up to being hurt again by revealing even this small piece of her heart. Then she smiled as she thought of Draco and the time they had spent together, and though it might prove foolish later, she somehow felt sure she could trust him. So she owled back the little twig with no card or note. He would know, she was sure.

When it arrived at its destination, strapped to the foot of a bored Ministry owl making its last delivery, it was carefully removed. After being twirled thoughtfully through slim, aristocratic fingers for several minutes, it was carried over to a large mahogany desktop where it was then placed rather cheerily (if such a thing were possible) between two pages of a rather worn and ragged copy of _Pride and Prejudice_.

 **ooo**

A/N: I've been having a little trouble being in the right mood to write their next dates, but that's what coming up next! Eventually. Sorry to make you wait.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Draco Malfoy was having a pretty damn awesome day. It had technically just started but he was still high on being pleased from the day before and from his date the night before that. By some strange plot twist it seemed that his ill-timed kiss, far from ruining his chances with Hermione, had actually seemed to spur her into moving forward with a friendship of a more romantic nature.

Upon entering his ("Our!") office, he did his best to compose his face into its customary taciturn look so as not to alert Potter to his unusually good mood. Potter was sure to have some irritating warning about not hurting his best friend; or worse, he'd want to offer advice or commentary. Like a couple of teenage girls plotting to win the heart of the cutest boy in class.

Just thinking about sitting cozy with Potter discussing his (potential) love life caused him to scoff with derision and so there was an appropriate sneer on his face when he finally entered their shared office.

Potter looked up and offered a greeting when Draco came in, but since Draco was very carefully not looking his direction he didn't catch the long speculative look Potter gave him. It didn't mean Draco wasn't aware of it, though, and his good mood suffered a tiny bit as he resigned himself to whatever conversation Potter was planning to initiate. He was probably going to have to make an extra effort to get along with Hermione's friends and the thought did not thrill him.

Still, avoiding the greeting, he hoped that if he could keep his head down and get to work that he might be able to make it too awkward for Harry to break the silence. He hoped in vain.

There were only a few blessed moments of quiet before Harry casually (too casually) said, "I had an interesting conversation with Ginny yesterday."

Draco gave him no reaction. Gryffindors! They had no concept of subtlety and they didn't even have the sense to be embarrassed about it. He pulled out his latest half-finished report on the movements of several wizards currently being watched for suspicious activity and loudly opened his files, an indication surely still too subtle for the thick-headed Gryffindor to accept as a sign that he meant to work and not chat.

When there was no other sound in the room for several moments, Draco was surprised to think Harry might have actually caught on. Out of the corner of his eye he chanced a look towards the corner Harry was seated in and saw that Harry was staring off into space, tapping a quill on the table, clearly thinking rather hard about something. Draco quickly looked back to his own papers, but Harry must have seen the movement because it prompted him to start talking again.

"Apparently, I need to send Ginny flowers more often." Harry stared at Draco pointedly, but Draco still wasn't meeting his eyes, not wanting to turn this monologue into an actual conversation. "And somehow I'm supposed to use the flowers to say something profound and profess my undying love."

Despite himself, Draco couldn't quite suppress the snort at the idea of Harry Potter navigating the intricacies of pureblood courting customs to impress a Weasley. A Weasley! Even though she was a Potter now, she would always be a Weasley.

But Potter misunderstood the snort and took it as a sign of commiseration. Still tapping his quill, he added, "I don't see why a dozen roses isn't good enough. She's always liked roses before."

Roses were trite. Everyone sent roses. Red ones, of course. Or worse, white ones. It's as if they wanted to tell the person they loved that they put as little thought into the gift as was possible.

"One dozen roses." Since Harry was speaking slowly, it appeared he was writing the words down onto a piece of parchment. Merlin, it looked like he was making a list. "Red roses," he continued. Then with a flash of inspiration he added, "Red _and gold_ roses. They make gold roses, right?"

Gryffindors. Draco scoffed again, quietly, and Harry didn't notice as he was busy tapping the quill against the desktop.

"A-ha! I'll send thirteen roses. One extra for Baby Jamie." At Draco's incredulous look that Potter would not only be stupid enough to send an unlucky number of roses to his beloved wife but that he would imply to her that bearing and raising his only child and heir was somehow worth one single flower more than his customary perfunctory bouquet, Harry raised his brow and asked, "What? Seems poetic."

Truly, in the face of such crassness, Draco couldn't help but comment, derision lacing his tone. "Having anything resembling social graces or charm doesn't seem to be your area of expertise, Potter. Perhaps you should stick with whatever you did to win the girl in the first place and not burst a blood vessel by thinking too hard."

With a wry look, Harry asked, "You mean not being killed by Voldemort? Destroying horcruxes? Being the Savior of the Wizarding World? That seems to be what I do best and she seems to like that rather a lot."

Draco rolled his eyes and with a shake of his head turned back to his parchment. Dipping his quill in the inkpot, he scrawled out his next sentences, resolved anew not to participate in Potter's idiotic musings.

That determination was immediately undermined by Potter's next outrageous statement. "So you're thinking maybe something more along the lines of a cake or something shaped like Voldemort's head with a wand through the eye?"

With that particularly vulgar image in his mind, Draco got an ink smudge on his parchment and had to use a quick-erase spell to remove the unsightly blotch. The image of Voldemort's ugly face in cake form with a wand through the eye, however, was not so easy to remove. "Potter," he ground out, "I am literally not sure whether or not you are joking or if there is actually a reality in which that is an appropriate gift for _anyone_ , let alone the wife you profess to love."

"You said to stick with my strengths," Potter protested, his defensive tone belied by the tiny twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "And that's not what George said when I got him that cake on the anniversary of Fred's death."

Draco gaped at that. Surely, not even Potter! Not even for a Weasley! And Potter actually _liked_ the Weasleys, making it even worse. He was just about to sputter out, "Just buy her two dozen damn lilies!" when the morning edition of the _Prophet_ arrived on their desks.

Harry pounced on it immediately, the subject of Ginny's bouquet temporarily abandoned, and he scanned through the sections till he found the Society pages. With a sigh, he shook his head, skimming his finger down the column of one particular article.

Curious, but not willing to start a new conversation, Draco waited for Potter to be done with the paper before casually picking it up and turning it around so he could see what had his partner in such a tizzy. There was an article on the Weasley family. Draco's eyes flicked up to read the byline and was unsurprised to see Skeeter's name on it, which could only mean the article was a mixture of half-truths.

Skeeter claimed to have inside information on the Weasleys' reactions to Ron's marriage to Lavender. The scandal was ripping the family apart, she declared, quoting (misquoting, more than likely) several different Weasleys making inflammatory statements about Ron's marriage as well as his previous relationship with Hermione. It was gossip and slander, ugly and most likely untruthful. It mentioned Hermione very little, except where it was in relation to Ron's 'record of romancing high-profile women' and so Draco found he had very little concern for the rest of it.

Not so with Potter. Harry was still standing by his desk, staring out their charmed window (overcast today), a look of frustration on his face. After he heard Draco set the paper aside, he spoke, quietly. "She tried coercing a quote out of Ginny, but Ginny told her to stuff it. The woman is a menace."

Silently agreeing, Draco turned back to his paperwork, wondering if he ought to say something comforting and then deciding such a thing was not only unnecessary but completely out of character coming from him.

Harry returned to his chair, plopping heavily into it, staring at the quill between his fingers and the unfinished list on the desktop. "She's right, though." And here Draco sighed heavily, knowing he was well and truly mired into another discussion. "The Weasleys are being torn. They love Hermione like family, but Ron is also family. Molly's in a right state, she can't bear the idea of not being welcoming to a daughter-in-law, but she's terrified thinking that if she invites Lavender into her home that Hermione will never set foot in it again."

"Sounds good, problem solved," Draco quipped flippantly.

This earned him a glare from Harry, who responded sharply. "It may be a joke to you, but I assure you it's not funny to either the Weasleys or Hermione. They're her family— _we're_ her family—all that she has left, and you'll never understand her if you can't understand that."

Draco heard what Harry didn't say: that the Weasleys were also _his_ only family, and having his wife and best friends torn different directions was taxing on him, as well. A part of him wanted to be sympathetic, but it was only a very tiny part, as most of him was taken up with the thought, "Ugh, Weasleys."

The look on his face must have been transparent, because Potter rolled his eyes at him. "They're good people, Malfoy. Even Ron—" but he didn't finish that sentence, and a good thing, because just the name was enough to cause Draco's eyes to narrow in tightly controlled anger.

Harry continued, agitatedly running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what's going to happen with Ron. The Weasleys are upset, everyone is upset. But I know when the dust settles Ron will still be family. And so will Hermione."

Irritated, Draco ground out between clenched teeth, "Are you trying to tell me that things will always be the same?" His tone was deceptively mild, but inside he was seething, unexplainably hurt at the warning he thought Potter was trying to give him. "It doesn't matter what Ron does, he will always be forgiven. The Golden Trio, intertwined forever, a holy inner circle along with your precious Weasleys. Unlike Malfoys who can never be forgiven." He hadn't meant to say that last part but the bitterness crept out as he imagined Ron being welcomed back to the folds of his family, Hermione gathered among them playing nice with his slag of a wife. Even the tabloids would eventually come around whereas Draco Malfoy would always be persona non grata no matter what he did.

Surprised at the acerbity of his tone, Harry turned to face him more clearly, his green eyes bright and piercing. "No, Malfoy," he said, quietly. "I mean that there will always be Weasleys in Hermione's life. And you need to learn to play nice. They are on her side, even though right now it is tearing them apart inside. Don't ever belittle their loyalty or you will lose hers."

Uncomfortable, Draco considered his words, unsure if the advice Potter was giving him was what it sounded like: a tacit approval of his awkwardly burgeoning courtship. Surely Potter meant it as a warning, instead. Draco responded with silence, his face serious for once, and lacking his customary sneer and snarky attitude. Eventually Harry turned back to staring moodily out the window.

But unable to concentrate now on his work, Draco worried the quill between his hands. He had been riding high on the success of his last date with Hermione, the first time he'd begun to think they were on the same page. But Potter's words made it clear just how very tentative his chance with her was.

She was a beloved celebrity while he was a step above a curse word. Though he had everything to gain from association with her, she had everything to lose. Would those Weasleys who adore her so much, even in the face of their own son's mistakes, still give her the same acceptance if she were dating a Malfoy? The animosity between him and the Weasleys was not one-sided. It went back so many generations it was practically tradition. She could lose her family, her friends, her standing in society … and what could he give her in return? Money, of course, which was particularly unimpressive to one Ms. Hermione Granger. And, well, himself.

Stripping things down like that made him feel a bit sick in the stomach. They would say he had taken advantage of her, stepping in when she was hurt and lonely. They would say she'd lost her mind.

The silence in the room was oppressive as Draco flipped that quill over and over, running his hands down the feather, his brain spinning as he contemplated his options.

He could back off and let her go, for her own good and all that. Something inside him violently protested that thought, though. He'd spent much too long convincing himself that he could never have her to give up now that there was actually a possibility that his feelings could be returned. If he let her go now she would find someone else, and because fate had always been against him, this someone else would _not_ be a fool and he would _not_ long leave her unattached, and Draco would never have this chance again.

No, he couldn't go back. The tally was still the same; he had little to offer her and that at much risk to herself. But he would take it. Because he was selfish. And because he was really beginning to believe that it was Hermione Granger or no one.

And if Potter was to be believed, it meant she came along with a whole passel of Weasleys. It was almost enough to bring a Malfoy to his knees in shame. Almost, but not quite. Because Draco had learned a few things in that same war they'd all fought in. One of those things was that sometimes the greatest shame came in not accepting change when it was inevitable. And in sacrificing those you loved on the altar of your misguided ideals. He would not make the mistakes of his mother and father.

Resolved, he pulled out a new piece of parchment. For whatever reason, the fates had granted him this chance to win Hermione Granger's heart. He would not waste it. It may be that she truly wasn't ready and still recovering from her last relationship, but if so then he would wait and build further on their friendship and gain her trust. He had absolutely no intention of letting her go. From the moment she was no longer attached to Ron Weasley he had had an uncontainable desire to be the next (and last) man in her life. He would convince her that his feelings were genuine.

He would make sure she understood that he'd never make her choose between him and her family, whoever she felt that may be. Except maybe Ron. He'd never be on the same side as Ron. Although, maybe, if the situation were dire, he might find it in himself to eat at the same table with Ron. Maybe. And maybe if he had some Firewhiskey first. (Also, during.) Well, actually, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

First things first, he had an owl to send. And a campaign to begin.

 **~~~ooo~~~**

When the owl with the powdery white feathers tapped at Hermione's window, she had just gotten home. But she felt a little thrill go up her spine as she anticipated the message of the scroll that she removed from its place on the owl's leg. After the bouquet yesterday, she hadn't heard from Draco and had spent the day idly wondering (sometimes panicking) about what his response to her answering message would be.

She gave the owl a treat and it flew off. Hermione didn't even bother closing the window she was in such a hurry to open the letter. The note was short and simple but it simultaneously made her laugh and made her stomach clench with anxiety.

"You did ask me to dinner on Friday. I get off work at 6:00. DM"

Friday was tomorrow.

-~-~-~-~-

A/N: Hello lovelies! I know it's been such a long time, but I have NOT forgotten this story. I just ran out of inspiration for a few things. I've been caught up in practical things that take my attention. Then when I finally finished the chapter, my beta had quit, so I spent a couple of weeks trying to find a new one. I usually post on Hawthorn & Vine first, but they've been taking the last three days to approve my chapter, and I couldn't wait anymore, so I decided to post here. I hope you all enjoy coming back to this story. I have already written the next chapter, and as soon as I get a new beta, I will post it. Expect it in 2 weeks. Beyond that, I can't guarantee anything. And by the way, I LOVE all of your reviews. Every time I get a new review, it gives me motivation to get back to an unfinished chapter and power through it. And yes, the next chapter is Date 2. And it's a doozy!


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

It didn't take long for Hermione to begin to feel that same sense of unease in the pit of her stomach that happened every time she came to a place—like this club—that had a lot of young, attractive people gathered gaily to the sounds of raucous music. She had wavered and waffled all day about the decision to bring Draco here. People, some people, some _specific_ people (well, persons, okay, one person) had always maintained that she didn't know how to have fun. That she'd rather be home with her nose in a book than really living life. It was true that she loved being home with her nose in a book, but it didn't mean that it was the only thing she ever wanted. She knew how to have fun and sometimes she even liked having fun around other people. She particularly liked to dance the Muggle way and didn't often have the opportunity to do it, so she thought she'd take Draco to a Muggle club, and prove to everyone (since that one person would never even know, that meant only herself) that she still appreciated being young and having an exciting evening.

Draco seemed a little surprised at the loud atmosphere when they had first walked in after having dinner at a tasteful little café. He had looked over at her questioningly, as if wondering if they were in the right place, and so she had smiled at him reassuringly and squeezed his hand. Honestly, she wasn't sure if the hand-squeezing accomplished anything as the entire walk over she'd been alternating between holding his hand too tightly and too loosely as she kept overthinking the feel of her hand in his. He probably thought her hand was having a spasm or something; hence the smile, which was much more universal.

The club was crowded, as it probably was every Friday. It had been a long time since Hermione had visited, let alone on a Friday night, and she'd nearly forgotten having to deal with the press of people. She'd had a brief twinge of anxiety that she firmly pushed aside, telling herself she really did need to get out more, and then she pulled Draco over to the bar at the side.

The cool, appraising looks that were thrown at Draco as they passed were nothing more than Hermione had expected. In his expensive trousers and silk button-down shirt she had to admit that he looked particularly gorgeous tonight. But she hadn't missed the double-take and the not-quite-blatant once-over the barmaid gave Draco as they approached the bar. She was one of those tall, leggy blonde sorts that bars seemed to like to employ to persuade male patrons into purchasing more alcohol than they ought to. Her long ponytail bounced behind her as she agilely filled drink orders and pleasantly chatted up the customers standing at her counter. That look in her eyes was what had set off that twinging sense in Hermione's stomach, the one that told her to go hide.

In the Muggle world, Ron had rarely been noticed, but walking into a bar in the Wizarding world had always resulted in scenes just like this one, and for a moment Hermione experienced a strange déjà vu. Embarrassed at herself, she firmly tried to shake it off, and leaned on the counter with a forced smile on her face.

"What'll it be?" the girl (her name tag said "Candy" with a heart drawn beside it) asked, her eyes on Hermione for an instant before shooting over to Draco and then lingering for a moment.

Hermione ordered a margarita for herself and then turned to ask Draco what he wanted. Draco just raised an eyebrow, reminding her that he didn't have much experience with ordering Muggle beverages. She grinned at him, remembering their last date at the pizza place, and his very Wizard reactions to Muggle food and drink items. Turning back to Candy, Hermione told her that Draco didn't drink much (which of course wasn't true, but was the easiest explanation she had on hand) and wanted to try something new tonight.

"Of course, I'd be happy to help you figure out what you want!" Candy responded, her eyes locked with Draco's in a way that made Hermione suspicious of her tone, if not her actual words.

Draco turned to look at Hermione who took her eyes off Candy's face (and her unnaturally clear skin) to realize she didn't know anything about Draco's alcohol choices other than his penchant for firewhiskey, which was definitely not an option for this evening. She ordered him a martini. That seemed appropriately sophisticated and debonair for Draco Malfoy's elevated tastes. If it's good enough for James Bond…

"Shaken, not stirred, I gather?" Candy asked, a twinkle in her eyes, as she looked Draco up and down once more. As Draco's attention was occupied looking out at the dance floor (actually, taking in the layout of the room and the location of the exits), he didn't notice, but Hermione did and when Candy saw she'd been caught looking she had the gall to give Hermione a wink.

When their drinks were set in front of them, Candy moved off to deal with some other customers while Draco tasted his drink. First, he eyed the olive in the bottom of the glass, and then carefully lifted it to his lips. His expression remained particularly still as he set the glass back on the counter and Hermione's face fell.

"You hate it," she said.

"No," Draco denied, hastily taking another sip, "it's perfectly fine."

"But you don't like it."

"Well, it's no firewhiskey," Draco conceded, somehow managing to sum up the entire difference between the two worlds in that one observation.

Hermione easily pushed the glass aside and then waved Candy back again. "He didn't like it," she announced without preamble.

Candy made a disappointed moue with her mouth. But it quickly gave way to a slow, sultry smile. "I bet you like sweet things, don't you? Chocolates? _Candy_?" At Draco's pleased nod, she laughed and said, "You want a girly drink." She didn't wait for a response or even acknowledge the way Draco's eyes flashed slightly at her description, but immediately started mixing something else together.

As she pulled out several different liquors, she added, "It's called a Purple Panty Dropper. But I make mine with peppermint schnapps, so it tastes…rather like a candy cane. Fun, flirty, I'll bet you like it much better than that other one. It's much more exciting."

Draco's only response was, "I do have a sweet tooth." Candy beamed at him, while Hermione tried not to react.

Hermione's eyes had narrowed at the carefully chosen words the barmaid was using and she was trying to convince herself that she was just being paranoid. But there was a roiling in her stomach that she was all too familiar with. Ron would lean on the counter with a wink and a flirty tone that somehow always resulted in him signing an autograph on a napkin (or a shoulder) and taking a picture with an arm slung casually around the girl in question ("All for the fans, of course, 'Mione!"). And they always, without fail, managed to take a poke at her. 'Why are you with _her_?' ' _She_ can't appreciate you like I can.' 'Call me when you want more adventure in your … _life_ , if you know what I mean.' And those were just the things they'd say right in front of her.

The pinkish purple drink was set with a flourish before Draco, whose initial response was, "Oh, the color of the drink is purple, I thought it meant the color of the … well, it makes sense the drink couldn't specify. It's not magic, after all."

Candy laughed, a full-throated sound that set Hermione's teeth on edge, clearly not understanding Draco's magic reference (thank Merlin) and urged him to take a sip.

After Draco did, his eyes lit up and he pronounced the drink much more his style and thanked her.

"Of course, happy to help!" she cooed at him. "And did you want one of those frilly umbrellas I usually put in the drinks?"

Noticing that several of the drinks around him had the little paper umbrellas, Draco considered it very seriously. "Does the pretty little thing enhance the flavor, or just the experience?"

With a wide smile that Hermione felt rather like slapping off her face, Candy said, "Oh, it definitely enhances the experience!" And so saying, she dropped a flirty little pink umbrella into his drink, her eyes on him all the while.

Now that Draco had his drink, Hermione pushed off from the counter, irritated, to find a place to sit without acknowledging their conversation further. She was getting worked up and beginning to regret her choice in venue. Finding a tiny empty table in a corner, she set her drink down and then turned to see Draco pushing through the crowd behind her, still sipping on that lurid purple concoction.

As he set his drink down on the table, Hermione took a deep breath and resolved to enjoy their evening together, when she saw him frowning at a small piece of paper in his hand. She felt her heart sinking. He looked up to see her watching him, and he grabbed her arm rather roughly and pulled her close to where he could speak into her ear.

Despite the loud music, she heard him quite clearly with his voice so close, his breath sending shivers down her spine. "I don't think it's safe here, we should leave."

Alarmed, she looked down at the note in Draco's hand, carefully cupped so that only she could see the writing on it. He continued, his hand still firmly holding her by the arm. "The barkeep handed me some kind of warning, but it's in code so I don't know what it says."

Drolly, Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "It's her phone number."

"Her what?"

"It's her name, and her phone number. Like her Floo address. She was flirting with you."

Surprised, he looked back at the bar which was obscured by the people crowded around it. When he turned back, his tone was disgusted, "Has she no manners? You were literally standing right beside me."

"Manners?" Hermione's tone was one of disbelief. "Manners? That's all you see wrong with this picture?" She wanted to say more, but realized she would only sound ridiculous. Ridiculous and jealous and insecure. And she didn't want to be that person. Not again. So she just took a deep breath and turned to look at the dance floor. "I'm going to go dance," she announced, and she walked out onto the floor by herself, determined to put the scene behind her.

~~~ooo~~~

She looked ridiculous. But Draco quickly saw that she wasn't the only one dancing like a caffeinated kangaroo with five arms, so it was clearly correct for the culture they were in. Muggle dances had no grace to them. Despite that, she managed to look adorably sexy in her jeans with her hair bouncing all over the place.

He permitted himself a very small smile while he watched her. She'd been jealous. He knew that girl at the bar had been flirting with him (of course, he later thought she was an undercover Muggle 'police auror', but that turned out to be a misunderstanding so he was back to the original flirting thing). It didn't happen often, being the notorious ex-Death Eater that he was, but he had been aware of her pathetic attempts at engaging his attention. There had been nothing remotely tempting about her, certainly not with Hermione standing right there looking fresh and enticing, and yes, the slightest bit irritated. And decidedly jealous.

He smiled again. She was so cute when she was jealous and trying so hard not to be. But she seemed to be enjoying herself now, if the look on her face was any indication. There didn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to the way the Muggles chose to group up. Some were in pairs, dancing very closely, while others were gathered in clumps, and still others seemed completely unattached to anyone else. Granger had spent some time near a cluster of laughing young women, and then had wandered around the floor on her own bobbing and swaying crazily in time with the music. It was clear she was having fun and the music was lifting her mood. When she caught him watching her, she seemed momentarily embarrassed, but then she waved at him to come out on the floor with her.

Draco had no desire to join in with the others on the dance floor, but he had a very, very strong desire to place his hands on Hermione Granger, so when she came over and grabbed those hands to pull him over he didn't resist very much. He could always blame it on the panty drink, there seemed to be quite a bit of alcohol in it.

The music had changed a little, to something sultry and undulating. Her arms went around him, and they swayed in time to the music. She was damp from dancing, and Draco could smell the scent on her hair and her skin, driving him crazy. Though not even standing as close as when they had waltzed at the Ministry ball, there was something about the informality of the crowded dance floor at a Muggle dance club, that made him feel tangled up with her.

As they danced, she looked up at him, clearly intending to ask something, but then abruptly she looked back down. Draco grinned and twirled her around, knowing she would get around to whatever she wanted to say.

When she finally spoke, he wasn't terribly surprised at the comment. "So I see you didn't go talk to the slag at the counter." An accurate observation as he'd spent the entire last 20 minutes sipping his purple drink and watching her gyrate around the dance floor. It pleased him that even though she didn't appear to be looking his way, she'd noticed where he was.

"Is her name really Candy?" he asked, his low voice the same tone as the one he used to mock guests at the Ministry Dinner. Hermione laughed quietly, and the sound vibrated warmly against his chest.

"Didn't you notice her nametag? Yes, it's 'Candy'. As in candy cane: a flavor she felt quite confident you would enjoy, remember?" she teased, but Draco still heard the lingering doubts.

"The drink is quite delicious, she wasn't wrong. But even if I wasn't here with you, that _Candy_ is not my type." This direct statement was met with a considering silence.

Finally, she asked, "What _is_ your type, then?"

Above her head, where she couldn't see, he smiled. "You know, the usual. Chestnut curls. Razor-sharp intellect. Scathing wit. Big, bossy mouth."

Her tone was a bit sharp as she responded, "Oh, is that all?"

He pulled her closer into his arms. "Lovely dark eyes. A soft heart, and a backbone of steel."

"Hmmm," was all she said, strangely appeased, her stomach fluttering at his words. "For it to be a type, does it mean that you've found more than one who matches that criteria?"

He laughed. "More than one Hermione Granger? Well, now that's a very interesting fantasy." His voice was low in her ear, his breath against her neck making her shiver as he twisted her words. "Consider me intrigued. Would one of them be wearing a Gryffindor uniform and one of them wearing a Slytherin uniform?"

"Stop," she told him, a little embarrassed at the dual images of herself that his words conjured.

"Oh no, you can't take it back now. I might be thinking about it all night, actually. Don't know why I've never thought about it before. Oh, yes, because there's only one Hermione Granger." He let her go and as he twirled her again he saw the small smile she had on her face, Candy and all her sugary ilk forgotten.

As she spun back to him she placed her arms comfortably around his neck. The music had changed to another fast-paced song, but they were content to continue swaying together. His hands slid down her body, to rest on the hips of those jeans he was fast beginning to adore. A few feet away, he could see another couple with the man's hands tucked into the back pockets of the woman's jeans, and he wondered how Hermione would react if he slid his hands in and around the curve of her backside. His fingers tightened on her hips, as he determined that he would find out, but maybe another time.

He heard her sigh against his neck, and turned his head so that his lips were in her hair, marveling at the feel of her with him.

~~~ooo~~~

Draco never did end up doing the crazy, bouncing Muggle dance. But several times he stood there good naturedly while Hermione hopped in circles around him. He could tell she was having fun. More than one person tried to cut in, usually scantily clad women whom he dismissed not-quite-rudely. Occasionally it was some prick in a dirty T-shirt, and Draco would send him away more-than-rudely.

His favorites were the slow dances. He'd tried a couple of times to figure out the best way to convince the person in charge of the music to play only the sweet, soft ones. Hermione would always come right up to him, laughing because she was sweaty and sticky, or sometimes just because she liked the song. She'd press her body right up against his, her arms around his neck, and his arms would go around her, settling comfortably along her hips.

The feel of her in his arms got better each time. He did finally inch his hands down into her back pockets, and made the final decision that jeans and slow dances were some of the best things Muggles had ever invented. Then she'd wriggled a little against his hands and a bolt of lust had shot straight through him, causing him to pull her even closer against him and forget whatever his current train of thought was.

He hadn't wanted to kiss her in such a public place. He didn't know how she felt about that, although it was clear some of the other patrons had no such compunctions. But he'd been nearly trembling from the need to put his mouth on her. He nuzzled her hair aside and placed a soft kiss against the delicate skin behind her ear, hoping to make the ache subside a bit. Instead, she gasped breathily, making it noticeably worse. So he kissed her neck again, hot little open-mouthed kisses that gave him the taste of her skin and made her tremble in his arms.

But then the music started fast again and he reluctantly pulled back to let her wobble back on her feet, waiting for the next time he could pull her close.

By the time the night was over and he had walked her back to her flat, he was nearly shaking from the arousal of moving his body against hers all night.

He'd just kiss her the once, he promised himself, knowing somehow it wasn't going to be nearly enough, but also knowing that he was already moving her faster than she might be ready for.

At the door, he leaned over to kiss her goodnight intent on being gentle but was taken aback when her arms instantly twined tight about his neck and she responded to his kiss with fervor and enthusiasm. He immediately opened his mouth to taste her better, his tongue sweeping along the outside of her lips, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her in even closer than they'd been dancing.

She tasted sweet, like that last drink she'd had at the club… fizzy, cherry-something. Her mouth matched perfectly to his. He nibbled along her lips, the weight of his body pinning her to the wall, and his hands gripping her waist. He had meant the kiss to be soft and sweet, but when she responded so readily to him, he lost track of all of his intentions. The feel of her soft curves so hard against him—finally, finally!—was enough to make him forget where he was.

The kiss was passionate, full of longing and desire, and though Hermione was determined not to run away like the last time, it made her tremble and quiver inside to think that he could have those feelings for her. He'd been teasing her all night and she'd thought she was prepared, but the strength of his body, the heat from his kiss, the need and want she felt simmering just under the surface was overwhelming. She pulled away and blinked, unseeing, stars still sparking off inside her head. Recalling where they were, she asked breathlessly, "Did—did you want to come inside?"

He gave a short laugh, still holding her tightly, and shook his head. At the confused and slightly crestfallen look on her face, he explained, "You're not ready for that."

Hermione's eyes went wide, as she realized what her request had sounded like. "Oh, I didn't mean for _that_ , I just meant—"

"If I come inside right now, that's what you're going to get," he cut her off.

Unsure why the thought sounded both threatening and incredibly exciting, she felt obliged to point out, "I wouldn't do something I didn't want to do."

He grinned at her statement. "Oh, you'll want it. You'll love it. It would be amazing, and then we'd do it again." He leaned down, partially to whisper into her ear, and partially to nibble on her delectable neck. She unconsciously tilted her head to give him better access, still trembling lightly in his arms, and could feel his words rasp against her sensitive skin. "But when I slide into you, Hermione Granger, there's going to be zero chance that you will regret it in the morning."

With a final kiss, he pulled back with a sigh. Straightening the collar of her coat, the gentleness of his fingers was belied by the dark excitement in his eyes as he held her gaze. "So not tonight. Another night, when I'm sure I'm not going to fuck you up against the closest surface."

All she could do was stare up at him, her legs turning to jelly at his words. Mostly his words. Partially the frantic images spinning through her head caused by his words. She swallowed, wondering if he was right, and she wasn't ready for that kind of relationship. Wondering if she wanted one. Wondering if she had the courage to ask him in, anyway.

As if he could read the doubts circling in her mind, he told her quietly, "Go inside, Hermione."

And somehow, with his eyes still holding hers, she managed to open the door behind her back and step into her flat. As she closed the door, she called out, "Goodnight!" She'd meant it to sound cheery, but it came out quavering and more breathless than she'd intended. She didn't see him smile to himself as the door clicked shut. And she didn't see him standing out there for several more minutes as he gathered himself to leave, wondering if she would come back out to come after him, thinking it was a terrible idea, but hoping she would anyway.

He finally licked his lips, the taste of her still lingering, and Apparated away.

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

A/N: Well, I never did find a beta. I'm having trouble getting the chapters together in any sort of orderly fashion. I'm afraid I may have to hold off on posting even what I do have until I can get several chapters written in a row and make sure everything meshes correctly. The longer this story gets the harder time I'm having holding it all together. Still, I love this story. And I love all of your reviews. Every time I get a review, especially when you talk about what you enjoyed best, I read through pieces of the story, and I remember how excited I am to share this with you all. And I laugh and laugh thinking how much you'll enjoy some of the things coming up in later chapters that are just waiting for me to write the part of the story that happens in between. Kind of like this "first" kiss. It was one of the first scenes I wrote for Draco's Bad Day and I've been dying all this time to see how you all like it. And it took me so long to get to it because somehow I wrote Draco and Hermione a little too far apart and it took me 45k words to get them to here, haha! But if you're re-reading this after a long time, and you see I haven't posted the next chapter, just know that I haven't forgotten. I'm still writing. I'm still reading your reviews. This story will finish. I've even gotten the final scene written already, even though we're nowhere near the end. Have faith, and drop me a reminder.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Draco readjusted his stance for the fourth time in the last thirty minutes. He'd originally been leaning lightly against the wall just to the side of the Floos, casually trying to look as if he just happened to be standing there. But after a few late stragglers heading home from the Ministry looked askance at his quietly intimidating presence (he was a Malfoy, he couldn't help it) (also, he was an Auror, but it was probably mostly the Malfoy thing), it occurred to him that he might be looming a bit too much like a Death Eater. So he'd put his hood down and looked around trying to find a bench he could casually sit on. Sadly, there wasn't one with a good view of the fireplaces that didn't also make it look like he was staring directly _at_ them. Which he certainly was not doing!

He briefly considered casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself so no one would notice him at all, but quickly dismissed that idea as not being the least bit casual, which was what he was trying to appear to be. It _almost_ occurred to him that if you have to try so hard to be casual, then you are not succeeding, but he was concentrating too hard on angling his body just so, and so that recriminating idea never gained form.

Since their last date, he and Hermione had only exchanged a couple of quick owls. She'd explained that a work emergency had come up, which had her working late and traveling at odd hours. As an Auror, he certainly understood about how work emergencies could take on a life of their own (sometimes quite literally), so he reminded himself to be patient. (He reminded himself at least a dozen times a day, actually.) There was a very brief period of time when he wondered if he had somehow done something wrong. Could she be avoiding him? But the messages delivered by the Ministry owl seemed perfectly normal and apologetic, if a little harried and brief. So he quashed that idea, determined to focus on the next step of his courtship.

He didn't know why today he'd gotten it into his head that he just had to see her for a few minutes, but when he found himself anxiously trying to determine if it was too soon to send her another owl, he figured enough was enough.

He had finally settled with his head down, his hands in his robes pocket, and his back against a column in the middle of the floor, right along the path she—well, someone, anyone, really—would take to get to the Floo. He'd just settled and congratulated himself on finding the right spot, when he was startled by footsteps coming from behind the column he was leaning against (i.e. the wrong direction)—footsteps he recognized instantly by their light, brisk step.

As she passed him, her curly hair bobbing behind her in time to her step as she approached the nearest fireplace, he realized she wasn't going to notice him at all before she left. So much for casual.

Merlin, he'd missed her! More than he ought to considering he'd just seen her a few days ago, and they'd only had a handful of dates and one kiss. But what a kiss! He'd gone home with his stomach tied into knots for hours, and had had plenty of fuel for some particularly colorful dreams and even more enthusiastic daydreams. He didn't think it was too much to hope she'd felt the same.

And that was really why he was going insane waiting to hear something more substantial from her.

Lately, he couldn't seem to think clearly. He was constantly being distracted remembering her body warm against his, the taste of her tongue, the feel of her lips. More than once he almost tried to get Potter to talk about Hermione, just so he wouldn't feel all these things pent up inside him. But then he remembered that if he talked to Potter about Hermione he'd start to get _ideas_ , like that they were chums who talked about their feelings or something awful like that. So he restrained himself. He was awfully good at restraining himself.

He reminded himself of that as he called out to her, his voice echoing in the empty cavern of the after-hours Ministry atrium. "Hey Granger! Working late today?"

Hermione turned abruptly, surprised by his sudden presence behind her. Her hand had flitted briefly towards her wand, a habit he noted and approved of, before lowering, empty, back to her side, a gesture that also pleased him. "Malfoy! Draco, you scared me."

She glanced around the empty room almost nervously before taking the few steps that brought her to where he was still lounging against his chosen spot. In one arm was clutched a stack of files that she was presumably taking home to continue working on, and with her other hand she pushed a couple frizzy locks out of her face. It was clear she'd had a long, hard day, and her gaze was tired.

When her eyes came back to meet his, though, they lit up, the wide smile on her face at seeing him relieving the uncertainty that had been building in his chest over the last few days.

"Were you just leaving?" she asked him politely, looking around again at the empty room. "It's awfully late, I know, but I needed to prep some documents for tomorrow."

When he just answered with a shrug, she started to apologize, "I'm sorry I've been so busy. I tried to send you a note whenever I had a few minutes to myself." A tinge of color came to her cheeks, as a thought occurred to her. Her smile grew even further, as she guessed, "Were you waiting for me, Malfoy?" She seemed pleased to think it, and so the immediate denial that he tried to summon (what some would call a lie) never fell from his lips.

Instead, an answering smile, just short of a grin, came unbidden to his face. He couldn't help himself. She was standing there, waiting for him to admit that he'd been purposefully waiting to catch her on her way home. As if he had nothing better to do than impatiently reposition himself every few minutes on the chance she was going to walk by. Well, he certainly wasn't going to admit to anything.

Although, it was worth whatever the potential embarrassment, just to be standing together with her looking up at him like that. She was happy to see him, and that made the butterflies (Bats? Hippogriffs?) in his stomach take wing.

Instead of answering her question, he pointed out, "It's 'Draco' now, isn't it?"

"Draco," she amended, the amused smile still on her face as she drifted much closer. "You were waiting for me, weren't you?"

"Maybe." He didn't mean it to sound coy. He was just distracted, because now she was close enough to touch. Of their own accord, his fingertips found their way to grasp her lightly by the waist, gently tugging her even closer. To his surprise and pleasure, she came easily, and he splayed his hands across her hips, wishing suddenly she had those jeans on so he could stick his hands in her back pockets again. Did skirts have back pockets? They ought to.

"Did you need something?" she interrupted his musings, playfully.

His eyes were focused down on her lips, which explained the next unplanned words out of his mouth. "I do have a question."

"Hmm," she hummed, taking a moment to register his words. "And what's that?"

"Am I supposed to let you know when I'm going to kiss you?" The K-word vibrated between them with intention and excitement. Draco could feel it like arcs of magic spinning between them. He thought he felt her tremble just a little bit, and he wasn't sure if it was in memory of the last kiss or anticipation of the next one. His voice suddenly got heavier, darker, as he added, "Or are we at that point where I can just kiss you whenever I feel like it?"

She blinked, as if trying to clear the heavy fog that suddenly seemed to be overtaking her limbs. But all it did was clear her vision for her to stare at his mouth the way she had felt him staring at hers. "Is there such a point?"

He grinned at her, a bold, predatory type of grin that set her heart suddenly beating a rapid pattern inside her chest. "I hope so. As I expect it's going to be rather tiresome asking for your permission every time I feel like snogging you."

Her breath was caught in her throat, so all she could answer was, "Hmmm."

"Which, by the way, is pretty much all the time."

The heat from his hands that were now wrapped around her waist seemed to be making her a bit light-headed. When she spoke, her voice was breathy, and her barely audible words fluttered up against his face which was suddenly very close. "And now, as well?"

"Particularly now."

The words were barely above a whisper, but she felt them like a strange thrumming that shot straight down into her stomach. She was certain she was about to feel his mouth on hers, and she could already feel her body straining towards him when something clicked inside of her brain.

"Wait," she said, pulling back, her voice no longer wispy and thin. She looked up at him, sudden amusement in her dark eyes. "Are you asking me to be your girl?"

He blinked at her, confused. "What?" He'd been millimeters away from what he'd been thinking about all day (week?) and getting his brain to suddenly process her words took a little bit of effort.

"You're asking for a blanket statement of permission to kiss me," she stated, matter-of-factly. He wasn't entirely sure that was what he had meant. He wasn't entirely sure he had meant anything, actually, but she seemed rather excited about it. And her swotty lecturing voice that sounded like she was about to teach him something did the strangest things to his libido. Something that certainly had never happened in school.

"I'm assuming you mean exclusively," she continued, still looking up at him with bright eyes. "As in, you don't want me to give anyone else even the occasional one-day pass."

He may not have understood how exactly they got on this topic of conversation, but he understood the metaphor. "Definitely not." His stomach churned a bit at the image that flickered through his mind of Hermione on a whirlwind kissing tour of a new bloke every day. It would be followed, he promised, by a whirlwind assassination tour of a new bloke every day.

"And I assume you wouldn't be kissing anyone else, either."

His eyes narrowed at that, wondering at such an obvious statement.

She leaned forward, her lips dangerously close to his again. His vision was filled with her, his head swimming with the smell of her so close. It was with effort he refrained from tightening his grasp on her waist even further.

"No one else, right?" she asked, suddenly unsure again at his lack of response.

Ah, he understood now. And the clear, open look in her eyes prompted his honesty. He lowered his forehead to rest lightly against hers and when he spoke, quietly, his voice was strangely reverent. "No one else even exists." She couldn't know how true that statement was, and for how long it had been so. It was a risk to reveal so much so soon—too soon. "There's only you."

He was beyond being able to make sense of his actions. And he couldn't seem to hold back whenever he was around her. There was a desperation he'd never felt before to share this secret he'd kept for so long.

When she whispered, "Yes," against his lips, he barely comprehended it, suddenly overwhelmed with the feel of her mouth on his, the taste of her lips. She leaned against him and if he hadn't been supported by the column at his back they both might have toppled over. The kiss was sweet and soft and soothed the achy, ragged pieces of his heart that had been climbing with doubt after he'd left her at her front door those nights ago.

Her tongue teased his, seeking warmth, sliding across his lips, and he felt himself wobble, marveling at the myriad of things she made him feel—this crazy, amazing, wonderful girl he'd known and underappreciated for most of his life. When she nibbled on his bottom lip, he shook with the fierceness of his need to have her as his own, to keep her. She made him feel empty when she was gone but bursting with light and energy when she was in his arms.

His hands cupped the back of her neck to pull her closer to him, his mouth angling to deepen the kiss. He felt, rather than heard, the low moan vibrating in the back of her throat. The sound was swallowed up but it bounced around until it hit into that ball of lust that seemed permanently lodged in his gut.

In the dim distance, he might have heard the scattering sounds of several papers hitting the polished marble floor, but he didn't have time to think on it because Hermione's arms came up around his neck, and he was occupied with worshipping the little pink tongue that tickled around his teeth and the soft lips that pushed and pulled against his.

The sound of the Floo being activated startled them both. Still locked in their embrace and breathing heavily, their heads swiveled to look at the fireplace that still sparkled with the tell-tale green sparks indicating that someone had just left. Someone had just walked by them snogging heatedly in the atrium of the Ministry and then left by Floo.

Scratch that. Someone had first magically picked up all the papers Hermione had dropped from the file she'd been holding, stacked them neatly on the floor beside her, _then_ walked by them snogging heatedly in the atrium of the Ministry and then left by Floo.

Looking back at Hermione, Draco was immediately distracted by the thought that Hermione looked flushed and her eyes were still heavy and glassy. She looked freshly snogged and quite pleased about it. And that thought had him leaning over to kiss her again, his normal sense of propriety over being caught snogging at work completely absent, when her hand on his chest stopped him.

"Melinda," she explained, breathlessly, nodding at the files on the floor. "My assistant. She was leaving right after me."

He didn't respond to this explanation but filed the information away, along with the image of the note he was sure Hermione hadn't spotted yet sitting on the topmost file. It was a drawing of a flower. A flower that spoke of approval and pride. He didn't know much about Melinda, but he rather thought he liked her based solely on that little drawing. She was cheeky and subtle, understood flower language and clearly had good taste in men if she was going to approve of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.

The thought made him grin as the strange feeling of having someone's approval coursed through his body. So he leaned down and kissed Hermione again, absurdly pleased with himself at having somehow managed to secure exclusive kissing rights to her utterly delicious mouth.

She tried to protest, or at least pretend to protest, but she was no match for the firm pressure of his lips against hers. Nor the feel of his hand in her hair cupping her head to him. Nor the feel of his _other_ hand considerably lower than her head, also pulling her towards him. She wondered, briefly, if she was going to have to get used to the slippery hot feeling in her belly that made her knees feel weak. Could one ever get used to such a thing?

When he released her mouth, nibbling along her jawbone, he felt her sigh against his neck. "How much longer are you working late, Hermione?"

"We're almost finished," she answered. "The negotiations are tomorrow, and we expect the conflict will be fully resolved. My—my," she stuttered because his wandering mouth had found a particularly sensitive spot below her ear. She closed her eyes, absorbing the feel of his soft kisses. He really was serious about kissing her. She smiled, turning in to kiss his cheek. "My schedule should be back to normal next week."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

"Draco," she laughed. "That's not even next week."

"You said negotiations were tomorrow. Then you'll have all day Saturday. So how about dinner on Sunday?"

"Okay, I can do that. Do you need me to pick the place again?" Reluctantly, she let his arms drop from around her as he bent over to pick up her files.

"I thought maybe we'd stay in this time," he said, easily, as he placed her work burden back into her hands.

"Oh?" She tucked some hair behind her ears as she settled the files against her ribs where she'd been carrying them before carelessly dropping them all over the floor. Her heart thumped a little bit in her chest as her mind couldn't help but fast forward to what spending the evening alone together might actually entail. For the briefest instant she had a flash of panic, thinking the opposite about what she'd been feeling not moments before in the heat of Draco's embrace—that she wasn't ready for that next step.

"I was thinking of cooking, actually." His face was straight as he delivered this line, noting but not commenting on her sudden look of reservation.

Hermione's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You cook?"

"Yes, of course," he said, only the tiniest bit of arrogance peeking through. "I'm quite talented at any number of things." His eyes flashed down at her with something that sent a thrilling shiver down her back. She gripped the files tighter, absurdly concerned she might drop them again. She chose to ignore the innuendo.

"But Draco Malfoy, cooking?" Her voice was colored with doubt, prompting Draco's short, clipped affirmation. "I have to see that!"

The wide grin that suddenly graced her features told him that she was just poking fun at him. "And do you wear an apron, and everything?"

He frowned, suddenly. "No."

"Oh. A shame, that." And she winked at him, turning towards the fireplace to grab some Floo powder. "Can't wait for dinner, then!"

"I'll owl you with my Floo address, you can come by after work," he called to her as she was preparing to depart.

"It's Sunday. I won't be working," she reminded him, turning.

"Oh, right," he said, feeling foolishly like she was going to think he was just saying things to delay her departure. Which was almost as bad as her thinking he was just saying silly things in general.

With a laugh she bounded back over to him, and standing on her toes, she kissed him. It was quick and playful, just a quick brushing of her lips on his. But as he pulled his head back, he realized he'd closed his eyes, and Hermione was laughing at him, walking back to the Floo.  
"I think I'm going to like kissing you whenever I want, Draco Malfoy." Then, in a flash of green, she was gone.

And Draco was overcome with the sudden realization that he had himself a girlfriend. Sort of. Right?

*-~o~-*-~o~-*

A/N: Well, here you are. I know you've all been patiently waiting. I promise that while it doesn't look like much in the way of chapter updates, there's a lot of work going into this story from behind the scenes. I've gotten a lot of help from several sources to plot out the next half of this story, and I'm so excited about the things up next for these two lovebirds. Thank you all for your lovely reviews and reminders, I love them all! Here's some shameless advertising:

1\. I also post on Hawthorn & Vine, which is located on "dramione" with a dot-"org" at the end. I have the same username, but I do have OTHER stories there. This is where I post stories (and chapters) that are rated MA, since FF will not allow those to be posted here. There's three other short stories there, with another one soon to be released as it's almost completed. So if you haven't checked it out, please go there and read my other shorter Dramione works. I also have a short T-rated story that I've got planned to release on both sites, so keep your eye open for that.

2\. Draco's Bad Day is up in the Finals nomination for Best WIP through the Facebook group Dramione Fanfiction Forum (18+ ONLY). If you like Dramione, and use Facebook, join this group, it's got wonderful writers, and great story recommendations! If you'd like to vote for my story, here's the link, just replace where it says with an actual dot. I highly suggest reading all the other great stories before you vote, as you are required to vote in each category. Thanks so much! Go here: goo (insert dot here) gl /forms/84NNrAICAzsGplBf2


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Hermione was already at her desk hard at work, bright and early, when her assistant arrived. Melinda arrived promptly on time for everything, every day, so it was no surprise to Hermione that she had gotten to work first. Especially during a trying time, like this case with the disputed land rights between two different magical species, Hermione needed to make the most of the time available. They were very close to finding a solution that was agreeable to both parties, and so Hermione wanted to make doubly sure that every detail was checked and all the paperwork was well taken care of.

It was a tiny bit of a surprise to her that even though she had told herself several times that she had nothing to be embarrassed about, the moment Melinda walked into her office, she felt a flush coming to her cheeks. It didn't help that Melinda stopped to pat the enormous bouquet that was still sitting near Hermione's desk. It had to be moved from its original location because Hermione actually needed her desk for working and the plants were far too distracting. But they displayed very nicely in the corner of her office just beside her desk. There wasn't much room between her desk and the wall, and the little low table she'd found for the purpose was barely big enough to support the weight of the gigantic bouquet. On Hermione's desk, the tallest blooms had reached nearly to the ceiling, but now they took up nearly the entire corner, so that every time Hermione went around her desk from that side, she had to slide a little or risk getting snagged on a Flitterbloom tentacle (an event that always made her thankful that Malfoy had not seen fit to include actual Devil's Snare). The stasis charm she'd used ensured the plants looked as fresh as the day they were delivered, making for an unusually large and imposing room decoration.

Melinda genuinely loved those flowers. She positively lit up whenever she saw them. Today, after exchanging morning greetings, there was the tiniest hint of smugness as she glanced at Hermione and then the flowers, and Hermione felt her face turning a bit of a deeper red.

Obviously, she needed to address the situation head-on. "Yes, well," she began, trying not to fidget with her quill. She felt ridiculously like a child having to come clean to her mother about something naughty. Some _one_ naughty, she thought, and then quickly dismissed that image. "I gather you know now who sent the flowers."

Melinda just grinned slyly at her—a funny, almost girlish expression on the older woman's face. "I didn't exactly see his face, being as how it was occupied with yours."

Hermione fought against flashing back to the kisses she'd shared with Draco just the night before. A difficult task being as how she'd been thinking about it ever since then. The amusement on Melinda's face would have irritated Hermione if she wasn't feeling so good about it.

Seeing the chair behind her, Melinda lowered herself into it, as she sometimes did when discussing the schedule for the day with Hermione. "But yes, it's clear that Draco Malfoy has very good taste. At flowers, of course." Of course. "But also in lovely witches."

Trying not to smile at the compliment, Hermione ducked her head. "He's quite the catch, isn't he?"

The answering smile on Melinda's face was affectionate. She reached over and patted Hermione's hand. "No, dearie, _you_ are quite the catch. And I'm just glad there was a wizard smart enough to recognize it, and treat a wonderful woman as yourself in a proper fashion." Her eyes twinkled a bit as she added, "He is treating you properly, right?"

Hermione looked around the room briefly. Despite being a Friday morning, the current casefile on her desk meant that she and Melinda would be working extra hard today. But then, she worked hard every day; that was just her way. Melinda had been a Hufflepuff, which meant that her work ethic was just as strong as Hermione's own. It also meant that Melinda's romantic streak was kilometers wide.

Setting down her quill, Hermione decided to take just a few minutes to indulge herself in conversation. "Well," she answered in a low voice, leaning forward across the desk prepared to disclose everything, "he asked me out yesterday."

"Out? Like a date?" Melinda asked, confused. "Didn't you already do that?"

"No," Hermione said. Then she corrected herself. "I mean, yes, he's asked me on a date." Ever the stickler for details, she had to correct herself again. "Technically, I asked him. For the first time, at least."

"Oh, how wonderful! So confident you are, Hermione!" Melinda clapped her hands, and the excitement visible on her face made Hermione eager to share more. She hadn't realized how much she'd been dying to talk to someone.

"Well, it happened because he kissed me, quite by accident." On second thought, though, that probably wasn't true.

Melinda's next words echoed her thoughts. "How could a kiss be by accident?"

"I think I'm telling this story wrong." They both laughed. "Do you remember the day he came to my office?"

Melinda nodded, wide-eyed. She remembered the imposing figure of Draco Malfoy in his Auror robes bearing down on their little department, and how Hermione went off with him shortly after.

"Well, we went for a walk and had a…discussion." She didn't feel like mentioning the part about Ron's announcement, although Melinda would surely remember the day, anyway. She also didn't feel like trying to explain about what Draco had done for her, and the throwing and breaking of china plates. "Afterwards, we were sitting on a bench and as I was trying not to…feel sorry for myself—" an understatement that was, "—I looked over at him and…he just kissed me." Her eyes went a little misty remembering it. "The briefest, gentlest kiss, almost like it wasn't even real."

Melinda sighed with her hands folded over her heart, and Hermione was tempted to skip over the next part, because she didn't want to disappoint her. "But then I ran away. Just jumped right up, mumbled something I can't remember, and ran away."

"Oh, dearie, he took you by surprise." Her tone was commiserating, and Hermione almost expected another pat on her hands.

"Very much so! But after I'd had a little time to think about it, I realized I wanted to know what would have happened if, well, if I hadn't run away. So I asked him to dinner."

She giggled at that. "And took him by surprise, no doubt!"

"You wouldn't have known it to look at him! He was so cool and calm, like women burst into his office all the time asking him to dinner." Hermione paused for a moment. Come to think of that, it might be true. She didn't know. Harry had such things happen to him all the time. And not only was Harry married, with a son, no less, he was also nowhere near as attractive as Draco was! (Factually speaking, of course. No offense meant to her best friend.)

"Then he sort of—" she paused, searching for the right word, "finagled a second date out of that first asking."

"That sounds just like a Slytherin." Melinda's voice held a tone of satisfaction that wasn't commonly expressed in relation to Slytherins. As if she were amused and pleased at the same time.

"Why, Melinda!" Hermione exclaimed, jokingly. "What do you know about Slytherins?"

Melinda sighed again and a bit of a far-off look came into her eye. "There was once a young Slytherin lad I knew myself. Cunning and sly." She smiled. "But ever so sweet."

Surprised, as she'd never heard Melinda mention any such thing, Hermione felt compelled to ask, "What happened?"

Melinda just shrugged, her expression wistful. "Grindelwald."

The force with which that single name hit Hermione was stunning. Not because of that Dark Wizard's history. But because she might as well have said 'Voldemort.' And the memory of how the world had once again almost slipped off into darkness always hit her square in the heart.

This time she thought of poor Melinda's Slytherin. She thought of Draco. And how if fate had twisted a slightly different direction, they might none of them be here at all. Certainly not she and Draco together. He'd fought on the other side, after all. He'd been a Death Eater, and the proof was still black on his skin.

For the briefest moment she felt all the doubts she hadn't yet expressed surfacing in her mind.

Melinda saw the look on her face, and she made a distressed clucking sound. "Oh, no, dear, don't let it make you sad! It was long ago. And the memories bring me nothing but a fondness for the girl I was, and the wonderful man he was." Her tone was sincere, if quiet. "I feel grateful to have had him even for that short time."

There was silence in the little room, as Hermione tried to put her fear into words. "Am I making a mistake, Melinda?"

"What?" The sudden change in the conversation appeared to shock her assistant.

"I made a choice before, a poor one. And he—" Hermione sidestepped his name, "—he fought for the Order, I thought I knew who he was, and I believed—I really _really_ believed—that he loved me. But I made a mistake. And I made another one by letting myself be misled for so long." She thought Melinda was going to interject a comment, so she kept right on talking, "And Draco—Draco is…wonderful. But how could that be? Is this just—Am I just making another horrible mistake?"

She stared down at her desk, the two situations lying side by side in her mind. On the one hand, Ron should have been a safe bet. A Gryffindor from the Order of the Phoenix. A hero. Her best friend.

And on the other hand, the boy who had tormented her through half of her childhood. The boy who had been the first person to call her the name that was carved into her arm.

She felt a touch on her hand breaking through her internal musings and she looked up at Melinda.

"It is never a mistake to love," Melinda declared. "Sometimes we make the mistake in trusting someone who doesn't deserve to be trusted, but love is not a mistake, it's a choice. You chose to love Mr. Weasley. His love was—" her face screwed up in distaste, "flawed. But yours was pure. And you have no shame in that."

Hermione opened her mouth to add to the comment, but it was Melinda who talked over her this time. "If you choose to love again, that's not a mistake, either. Only you can decide if he is worthy of your trust."

She thought about that for a moment. As a student at Hogwarts, she wouldn't have trusted Malfoy with a fake practice wand. But Draco, did she trust him now? In the years since she'd worked with him at the Ministry, he'd never—not once—given her, or even Harry for that matter, any reason to doubt him. Her experience with Ron had just caused her to doubt her judgment. If she had been so fooled before, could it easily be happening again? She knew she shouldn't be letting her experience with Ron cast a cloud on her relationship with Draco. But it was very hard not to compare the two situations, to wonder if she was once again overlooking a character flaw because she wanted to believe the best of someone.

As if echoing her thoughts, Melinda said, "But for what it's worth, Hermione, I think you have the chance for something far greater with Mr. Malfoy than you ever did with Mr. Weasley."

Hermione raised one eyebrow and wryly suggested, "Because he knows his flowers?"

Melinda scoffed. "Because the boy knows when to _send_ them. And more importantly, because he knows that you don't take some things, like the high regard of someone you care about, for granted." She looked over at the flowers on their little stand, and then turned back to Hermione. "Be honest now, is there a flower in the center of that bouquet?"

Hermione's sudden grin gave her away. "What makes you ask that, Melinda?"

"Oh, come now, dearie, I've been staring at it all week. He's not the young man I think he is if he missed a golden opportunity like that."

Hermione leaned over, her chair just close enough that one hand could reach the outer layers of the plnats, which she pulled back gently to reveal the tiny little tulip in its tiny little cage. The movement was obviously practiced, though no one needed to know Hermione did it several times a day just so she could look inside.

"I knew it," Melinda breathed, another sigh fluttering out. "There's something in the way he looks at you. Forgive me for saying, but Mr. Weasley never looked at you the way that blonde boy does."

That remark caught her attention. "When have you ever seen us together?" She blushed again, as she remembered Melinda had witnessed them wrapped around each other. But she quickly spoke over her embarrassment. "I mean, other than last night."

"Why, at the Ministry Dinner, of course. He was very handsome in his black robes, and you in that beautiful green dress."

"That was our first night together," Hermione remembered. "I only went with him to stick it to Ron. We weren't even dating." But then she thought of Draco's list, and how he classified it as their first date. Maybe he had asked her out first, after all.

"He couldn't keep his eyes off of you. Anyone else might have thought he was cold or calculating. Slytherins are particularly good at hiding their feelings. But he couldn't fool me." The older woman's expression was distant again, as she looked back on something only she could see. "When a Slytherin loves, he loves completely." Her eyes were soft and they twinkled as she added, "And when he decides on something, or someone, he pursues it completely until he wins it."

A little shiver went down Hermione's back at that description. Not fear, not quite excitement. Anticipation, perhaps. The same as whenever he turned those silvery eyes on her and focused on her like nothing else existed.

Sitting back in her chair a little bit, her hands still on her papers, Melinda added, "And every witch deserves to know what it feels like to be pursued by her wizard."

The thought made Hermione smile, slightly. The situation certainly was very different. With Ron they'd danced around each other for so long that when they finally came together, they were just together. There had been no nervous conversations asking for a date, no sweet letters, no flowers (unless he screwed up). Instead there had been irrational jealousies and possessive speech, and later, demeaning insults about his waste of time.

The attention Draco gave her was as different as night and day. She felt…important. Cared for. Wanted. Yes, that was it. When he'd kissed her the night before, she'd felt desperately wanted. It was in the way his tongue danced with hers, in the way his hands held her close. When he looked at her, she felt a fire lit inside of her. She'd thought it was just in her head, a trick of her hormones in the way her skin heated and her belly clenched, wondering if she was imagining the strength of his feelings. Was it true that Melinda had noticed even as early as that Dinner? And if she had, had anyone else?

Harry, she thought. Harry had probably noticed. That must have been what Ginny meant when she said that Harry already knew. He'd observed him for years, being the head of the Auror department. How uncharacteristic of Harry to be both observant and discreet. How lovely of him to be quietly supportive.

Hermione almost laughed at that. Her mood was bright again, the previous misgivings she'd voiced seeming to have dissipated into the morning air.

She noticed Melinda had been observing her as those thoughts ran through her mind. "He asked me out," Hermione confirmed, bringing the conversation back to the beginning. "Not just on a date, but…a commitment." Then she grinned, the words he used bringing a bit of a blush back to her face. "He asked me for my kisses. All of them."

Melinda gave her a knowing look. "That certainly explains how I found you both, then. Sealing the deal, as you young ones would say."

The sounds of both of their laughter mixed in the air, warming the room, and seeming to signal the end of the conversation. The older witch carefully pushed herself up into a standing position and carried the files she needed out of the room. In the doorway, though, she stopped and turned back. "Hermione?"

The informal use of her first name, uncharacteristic of her assistant, drew her attention back from where it had begun wandering to Draco and the feel of his lips on hers. "Yes, Melinda?"

"I've never seen that look on your face, before, either. Not in these years we've worked together, not ever with Mr. Weasley."

"What look is that?" Hermione asked, curious about the indulgent, affectionate expression on her assistant's face.

"The look of a woman who has given her heart away to a worthy man."

With another twinkling smile, Melinda exited, leaving Hermione with much to think about. She glanced again at the flowers in the corner, the tiny promise in the center once again hidden from view, and felt a lovely warmth blooming in her chest. It did indeed seem that she'd given her heart away. To a man who sent her flowers, who made her laugh, who made her feel good about exactly who she was…who was going to make her dinner. She grinned to herself. She couldn't wait.

* * *

 **OOO**

 _A/N: Hello lovelies. I'm so sorry for the extended delay. It was the strangest delay. This was not the chapter I'd been trying to write. For weeks (months?) I've been working on a different chapter, and it just wasn't happening. There was something missing. It was the same thing that happened when I sat down to write the last chapter. These last two chapters were not at all part of the outline, but sometimes I can't move forward until I find the missing link. And this was one (or two) of them. So here you go. I know you were hoping for the dinner, but that's coming up next. For real this time._

 _Once again, thank you all for your continued support of this story. I love seeing all of your reviews, and all the reminders telling me you are still reading and waiting are really highly motivating. I recently joined some great groups on Facebook to help me to write better. You can find me on Facebook as Maloreiy Webster, and if you write Dramione or other HP fanfics, feel free to join the groups I'm in. They are wonderful for writers, betas, Dramione fans…I've even managed to make at least one cover picture of my own for a story, thanks to an art group._

 _Which reminds me, I wrote a silly one-shot of Hermione/Cormac. Check that out when you get the chance, it's posted here on FFN. I also wrote a 5-chapter (about 25k words) story called Curses, which is posted exclusively on Hawthorn & Vine (Dramione-dot-org), because that's where all my MA stories go. (Head Girl and Head Boy get trapped in a cell together with unusual consequences from the spell they were hit with. Nearly PWP.) Remember you can find me under the same penname there._

 _Coming up, are the next chapters for Draco's Bad Day. I think another serious chapter or two, and then the return of the humor. I don't know how this story got so serious when it was supposed to be all fluff. Also, I've got a Neville/Luna Marriage-Law short fic that should be coming out very soon. I won't post it until it's completed, and it's about three-quarters finished. And lastly, as part of H &Vs latest Prompt Fest, I'm working on a Veela!Draco story to be released on February 4th. (I don't know when I will post it on FFN, but sometime shortly after that.) So that's all. And I'm sorry this Author's Note is so appallingly long, but I literally don't know when I'm going to post next, so I wanted to make sure it's all there._

 _And the last thing. Thank you to everyone who has Favorited this fic. I like to sort all the stories by the most Favorited, and my story has finally cracked the top 1000 list. LOL. I know that doesn't sound like much, but it thrills me. So if you haven't Favorited this story (and it's one of your legit favorites), then do so, and make my day to watch it climbing up the charts._


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Draco consulted the recipe that was written out in front of him. He was pretty confident in his ability to follow a recipe, but he was a bit nervous. Hermione would be coming over any minute now and he wanted everything to be perfect. But not too perfect like he was trying too hard, because he didn't want her to think that he'd spent all day whipping cleaning spells around his flat and moving colored pillows around his sofa and wondering what it would be like to have her standing in his home. No, not like that. Hopefully she'd never know _that_. He wanted everything to be just _normal_ perfect.

He could hardly believe that she was coming over to his home and that she was actually dating him. So far his courtship had gone better than even he'd planned. That Weasel must have been a real plonker (was there ever any doubt?) because it was clear he hadn't given Hermione anywhere near the attention that she deserved. Well, so much the better for Draco. He actually had a reason to be grateful to the ginger menace, yet another thing that was going to be hidden far, far deep where no one would ever find it. She would see that the difference between the two men couldn't be more plain, and that could only be in his favor.

Tonight, he was hoping that they could have a little time together away from the stress of the public (and him trying to figure out how to pass as a Muggle) and without the reminders of the things that had separated them before. A nice meal, good company, stimulating conversation, maybe some…no.

Draco shook his head, trying to concentrate on the cauldron in front of him. It did no good to speculate on any …other…activity that might happen that night. That was how he lost half of an hour when he was trying to decide what to wear and somehow sidetracked into wondering what _she_ was going to wear. And then he'd ended up starting dinner a little later than he'd planned.

Now it was more likely that he'd still be cooking when she arrived, which scuppered his plan to be lounging casually on the couch absorbed in an intellectual book. On second thought, it was probably for the best. What kind of person sits on the couch reading a book while waiting for a date to arrive? On third thought, the answer was probably Hermione, so she'd probably appreciate it. Holding a book in his hand could only make him more attractive to her.

He adjusted the temperature on his cauldron and made a mental note to be sure to show Hermione his books later. His literal books. Not his figurative 'books'. Not like, 'Hey…want to see my _books_?' He shook his head again at the direction his thoughts kept taking.

Just then the Floo rang out and he looked up to see Hermione coming in through the fireplace. She dusted herself off and then looked up at him and sent him a brilliant smile that hit him all the way in his stomach. He was fortunate he didn't chop off a finger. Not for the first time he wondered if that smile was a particularly potent weapon, or if he was just particularly susceptible to it.

He acknowledged her with a greeting, and she called out to him, "Dragon's Lair?"

He just shrugged, turning his attention back to the countertop. "What, too predictable?"

"A little bit. But sometimes predictable is comforting." She took off her coat and hung it on the coatrack. "Habitaculum draconem," she repeated to herself, chuckling.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her look around and thought he knew what she was seeing. Even she of the extendable-charm-mastery looked impressed at how spacious the flat was. The high, vaulted ceilings gave the room a light, airy feel, and low lighting drifted down to illuminate the living space that was covered with warm rugs and antique furniture. He may be a bachelor living on his own, but he still had standards.

She crossed over to the kitchen area, sniffing at the air, and he was careful to chop with competency and skill just in case she was watching, which, of course, she wasn't.

"Hmm, that smells lovely, Draco. What are you making?" She stood beside him and peered into the cauldron. He tried not to feel disappointed that she didn't greet him with a kiss. After all, he was holding a knife. There was probably a rule about not kissing someone holding a knife. He wouldn't know as the only ones who cooked in Malfoy Manor were house elves and he had no desire to know whether they engaged in any displays of affection while they braised the lamp chops and chopped the vegetables.

"Soup," was his less-than-articulate answer as his thoughts temporarily swerved past the idea that maybe he ought to have made lamp chops.

"Soup? That seems rather tame for such an accomplished chef as yourself." When he looked up at her, her eyes twinkled in a way that told him she thought he was trying to put one over on her.

"As it happens, making soup is my specialty." At her unconvinced look, he asserted, "Making soup is a lot like making potions. You follow a careful recipe. You chop up a lot of ingredients. You throw them all into the cauldron at the appropriate time." His shrug indicated the conclusion was obvious.

"We generally call it a 'pot' when we are cooking," Hermione observed with an amused smile.

He rolled his eyes as he added cubes of potatoes to the vessel in question. "Really, Miss Know-It-All, then why does it say 'Cooking Cauldron' on the side?" With his wooden spoon, he indicated the little label on the bottom.

Hermione bent to look closer and saw that it had a clever stylized logo that proclaimed 'Cooking Cauldron 5 qt.' She laughed and acknowledged that he was correct.

"I told you. I know what I'm doing," he sniffed, only slightly put out that she didn't seem to believe him.

While Draco added more ingredients into the cauldron, Hermione took the opportunity to look around his kitchen. It had a lovely layout with bright, spotless counters of a classy white marble that held subtle streaks of grey. The wooden cabinets didn't have any doors on them, instead holding open shelves that were tinted a surprising mint green on the inside. This made it very easy for Hermione to ascertain that most of his shelves were empty.

Most kitchens she'd been in had usually been filled to overflowing with cooking implements, and Malfoy's kitchen was stark in its cleanness and emptiness. There was only a bare handful of bowls and cups, and what looked like a miniature version of the cauldron he was using.

Suspicious, she glanced over at the blond head that was looking into the Cooking Cauldron and stirring carefully. She turned back to the mostly-empty shelves. "Is there any chance that making soup is the only thing you know how to cook?"

He scowled at her, still stirring, but didn't deny the charge.

"I'll be happy to show you how to cook using things other than a cauldron," she offered, with a laugh.

"I know how to cook, Granger," he repeated, this time with a bit of a pout. After carefully pouring in some heavy cream he stirred a few more times and then set his spoon down. Satisfied, he covered the cauldron and wiped his hands on a towel, turning to her. "Now, then."

The look on his face as all of his concentration was suddenly focused on her, sent a shiver down her spine, and gave her the absurd notion that she ought to start running. The manner in which he crossed the kitchen floor reminded her of a predator stalking his prey, which would make her the prey—a thought that somehow thrilled and excited her.

She took a reflexive step backwards, but found herself backed against the counter. There was no time to protest before his hands had cupped her head and his mouth had descended to claim hers in a fiercely, possessive kiss. He'd been so calm standing there stirring his soup that she'd let her guard down, and she'd forgotten how this man effortlessly made her feel a storm of emotions at once.

Her hands came up to rest on his wrists and the gentleness in his hands was belied by the dark slippery feeling of need that whispered out where his lips dominated hers. She thought she might have moaned because suddenly his tongue was there, completing the sensation of being devoured. Her knees wobbled, and as if in perfect synchronization, one of his arms came down to wrap around her waist, holding her to him.

He finally released her mouth with a last nibble on her lip, but he didn't let her out of his arms. She swayed a little, feeling dizzy from the lack of air and from whatever it was that happened whenever he touched her. When her eyes slowly drifted open, she saw him observing her as he held her against his chest, clearly pleased with her reaction.

"Hi," he murmured, his voice low. She felt the flutter of his breath across her skin.

"Hi," she answered, feeling a silly smile forming on her own face.

He leaned in again and this time his lips touched hers with a lovely softness that gently coaxed all the thoughts right out of her head. After the last kiss, she had felt like she'd been hit with a jelly-legs jinx, but this one was different, as if the edge of his hunger had been sated and he was content to savor the touch and taste of her. His mouth nibbled at her like a delicacy, a soft giving and taking as he licked at her lips. She felt wrapped in a cocoon of warmth as her arms came up around his neck and she pressed against him, her mouth responding in kind. The frantic spinning in her head began slowing down against the soft, coaxing kiss, slowing and slowing and slowing until he finally pulled away and she blinked up at him.

There was a faint beeping sound in the background that she hadn't registered before.

"Dinner's ready," he winked, letting his arms drop from around her, his hand lingering to make sure she was steady on her feet. He moved back over towards his cauldron, and she looked around wondering suddenly how long they'd spent with her back against the counter, and his mouth on hers making her forget where she was in time and space. Surely, it was only a few moments.

Thinking to help, she took a wavering step towards the shelf with the bowls on it and had to mentally shake the fog off of her limbs to work properly.

She stared at the bowls on the shelf for a few minutes, unseeing, before she finally realized what the problem was. "Malfoy, you don't have the right—"

The look on his face made a slight blush come to her already flushed cheeks. "I mean, Draco. You don't have the right bowls for a soup."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Just transfigure them. Whenever I need something, I just transfigure it from something else."

She did a _Finite_ to remove the current transfiguration spell, and suddenly she was looking at a handful of mismatched saucers. "Draco, why don't you have any proper bowls or plates?"

He gave her a wry look. "Well, Granger." It was obviously okay for him to use her surname whenever he wanted. "All my best china recently ran afoul of a foul temper and was smashed to pieces, so this is what I've got."

She almost laughed, remembering that day by the pond. "I find it hard to believe that _that_ was all of your best china. It was positively hideous, if I recall correctly. I rather think I was doing you a favor smashing it all to pieces." She proceeded to perform a couple of simple spells that gave them some sturdy, deep soup bowls and a couple of wide-mouthed soup spoons.

"I agree, it was hideous," he acknowledged, taking the new bowls from her, and proceeding to ladle the soup into them using the stirring spoon that he'd just transfigured. "I'd always thought so. I suspect that's what my mother had in mind when she sent it over to me."

"She wanted you to have hideous china? In order to what, offend any guests you might have?"

He paused, as if thinking carefully about his answer. "She wasn't pleased with my decision to move out. She was quite upset about it, actually." He carried the bowls over to his antique Cherrywood dining table and she followed him. She noted that it had already been laid out with two settings and what looked like a small plate of tiny crackers. "It was after my father died, and I needed to leave and…get away…and she didn't understand that."

As they sat together, looking at the food before them, Hermione sensed suddenly that the mood had changed. She'd never yet broached the topic of his parents. Lucius had been sent to Azkaban for war crimes. It had been a ridiculously short sentence, compared to everything he'd actually done. Narcissa had been placed under house arrest for a period of several years, and as Draco had not yet achieved his majority when he became a Death Eater, his sentencing was even lighter—a period of probation and temporary restrictions on his wand.

There were many families who had fought on both sides of the war that were incensed at the way the Malfoys seemed to receive special treatment. The story of Narcissa's pivotal actions in bringing down Lord Voldemort eventually exonerated her in public opinion, but Draco still faced considerable resentment from most of Wizarding Society.

Lucius, however, had truly made some bitter enemies. Despite only having to serve a year in Azkaban, he never made it back out again. A break-in attempt and an uprising left several inmates dead, and when the dust cleared no one was surprised to find that Lucius Malfoy was one of them. Viewed as a traitor by both sides, the Order had tried to keep him under heavy guard for his own protection, but they had been unsuccessful. There was some rumor that an old spell or curse placed on Voldemort's followers to ensure loyalty had been triggered. Whatever the case, Lucius' death was ugly and reeked of Dark magic.

Trying not to be insensitive, she offered a marginally comforting sentiment as she tasted her first spoonful of Draco's concoction. "I'm sure your mother was grieving over your father and just didn't want to lose the close contact with her only son."

"My mother and I aren't close, Granger." His voice was harsh and sharp, a tone she hadn't heard in quite a while, and it caused Hermione to look up at him quickly.

She ignored the fact that he'd reverted to calling her by her last name. It seemed to indicate something, and she didn't want to interrupt whatever train of thought they seemed to be barreling down on.

"Aren't you, though? Harry always made it sound like you and your mother had a close relationship." By now they all knew the story about how Narcissa had lied about Harry being dead, out of a concern for her own son. She didn't bring that up, though.

"We _did_ , Granger." He eyed the bottle of wine in front of him before he poured some into his glass and drank half of it at once. His voice was sour when he said, "Then she practically sold me to the Dar—to Voldemort."

Sick at heart, and not really comprehending much beyond the hurt in his tone, she reached for the hand that was still wrapped around his wineglass. "I'm so sorry, Draco. Did she really? That must have been horrible."

He didn't shake off her hand. But he also didn't respond to her touch. He gave a little shake of his head, like he was throwing off bad memories. "I don't mean literally. I mean that she knew—she knew what the Dark Lord wanted to do, she knew what Lucius and she were involved in, she knew one day it would involve me, and she just let it all happen."

Hermione tried to sort out this information in her head. There was some bitterness and resentment wrapped around him, she thought. She didn't understand why it was aimed at his mother, though, rather than his father. Perhaps it was because his father was already dead, and beyond the reach of his emotions. She offered, "Perhaps she was afraid of Lucius."

Draco snorted at that. "Of course she was afraid of him. Afraid of the position he'd reached in Voldemort's hierarchy, afraid of what it meant to defy the Dark Lord's wishes."

"Wasn't that everybody, though?" she asked, tentatively, trying to understand his feelings.

He ran his fingers through his hair, a sign of his frustration. He was silent for a moment, obviously reliving some things he wasn't willing to share. "She should have done something. She let them—all of them— _him—_ into our home. She let me get involved in a task doomed to failure knowing it would kill me. She just—" he paused for a moment, not finding the words he wanted, and so repeating what he already said, "should have done something."

She still held his hand between both of hers, and she looked up at him, not surprised to see a sign of real pain on his face. She thought of her own parents and the choices she'd made in the war, and even though there was a part of her that said not to, she couldn't help from asking, "What could she have done, Draco? With all of that against her, what else was there for her to do?"

He stared at her, not quite looking at her but beyond her at something only he could see. Then he abruptly laughed a short, deprecating laugh. "I don't know, Granger. Something. Anything. Anything else than just letting it all happen."

He got up abruptly, pushing his chair away from the table, and began chopping up a few sprigs of parsley and some chives. With his back turned to her, he continued as if he was telling the same story he'd started a few minutes ago, and Hermione understood he was trying to close the subject. "So I told her I was leaving. I couldn't stand to live there anymore. When I undertook Auror training, I also looked out for a little flat for myself here in London, and took only what I needed. She tried sending me some owls, but I refused to accept them, and she finally just sent me that package of truly hideous china. She knew it was my least favorite, and it was the least valuable."

Hermione sipped on her drink while he talked. She forbore to mention that Draco was more than wealthy enough from his own funds, not even including the Malfoy family money, to have bought himself as many sets of china as he wanted. (Even she had a perfectly decent set of her own.) And that in the weeks since she had smashed his (admittedly horrendous) family heirlooms, he hadn't bought any more. He'd just transfigured a few pieces that he needed.

If she had to guess, she would say that he still loved his mother very much. But he didn't truly believe his mother loved him, and so he couldn't forgive her for her weakness.

She filed that information away for another time. As he returned, sprinkling the chopped herbs into her bowl, she decided it was time for a shift in the mood.

"Even the least valuable Malfoy china is probably worth more than my entire flat. I'm surprised you let me throw it at your pale blonde head." She grinned at him as he sat again and faced her, and she saw the slight smile on his face as he remembered. "Actually, you were the one that suggested it, if I remember correctly."

"No, Granger," he pointed out, waving his spoon at her, "I suggested you dash it to pieces on the ground, not try to knock me unconscious with the tea plates."

"Either way, we still wouldn't have had any bowls for our soup today," she pointed out.

He looked up at her, smiling more broadly now. "If I'd have thought at the time that I had any chance of eventually getting you here, I would have set aside a couple of soup bowls, certainly."

She grinned at him again, and at the memory it brought of how he'd looked at her that day beside the pond, before she'd run away. Feeling quite pleased about the way things turned out, she gave him the compliment he'd no doubt been waiting for. "The soup is very good! Certainly deserving of bowls. What did you say it was, again?"

"The recipe says New England Clam Chowder. It sounded modern and classic at the same time."

She opened her mouth to speak, and then paused, thinking. "Modern because it said 'new' and classic because it said 'England'?" She didn't have to wait for his response, because somehow the thought was too amusing and she started giggling into her soup. "Well, it's certainly classic. Classic _American_. Wherever did you find a recipe like that?" She couldn't imagine he found a recipe for an American soup in the cookbooks at Flourish  & Blotts. If they even had cookbooks. She certainly couldn't remember ever seeing any.

He scowled at her, and then looked down at his very tasty soup, scowling harder. "A friend gave it to me. He said it was good."

Hermione was quick to put her hand over his and reassure him. "Actually, it's lovely. Really. I've never had a man cook for me before." The look on his face started to lighten a bit at her words, but then she added, "Even if it was _just soup_." Then he scowled at her even further while she laughed and stuck another delicious spoonful into her mouth.

Hermione spent the rest of the dinner trying to appease his fragile ego. She was glad enough to distract him from the heavier conversation that had started the evening. She rather thought he started faking his offense after the first few minutes because he was enjoying her attempts to make it up to him.

* * *

A/N: Hello lovelies! Thank you all so much for everyone who reviewed and favorited this story! I'm always so happy to post a new chapter, because I look forward to hearing how everyone enjoyed it. I want to apologize for a couple of things, though. First, I'm sorry that I had to break this chapter into two. (That's right, there's a second half to this date.) But I do try to keep the chapters close to the same length, and since I'd been working on these for so long, they just kept longer and longer. The good news is it won't take as long to post the next chapter because it's largely finished and just needs some editing. The other thing I'm sorry for is all the serious pieces. Haha, I know I shouldn't be sorry for those, but I don't know why I keep throwing these serious bits in when I'm supposed to be writing fluff with some humor and romance. I feel like I keep misrepresenting my story. Anyway, thanks for sticking along for the ride, you guys are the best. And I'm hard at work on my Veela story that's coming out next month, too!

Also…I don't know why Draco's making clam chowder. I thought it was weird, too. But the word chowder comes from the same word that cauldron comes for, and they both seem to mean pot, so maybe that's a thing. And assume the time requirements for the cooking have been sped up because…magic.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

After they had put away the dinner dishes, Hermione looked around the noticeably sparse living space and asked the question that had been bugging her since she'd walked in. "So where are your books, Draco? I know you couldn't bring your family's whole library with you, but I thought for sure you'd have more than just bare walls."

He smirked at her. "Of all the things you're curious about and could ask to see, here in my private sanctuary, that's what you want? You want me for my books?"

His wording made her blush just a little bit, but before she could retort, he'd grabbed her hand. He pulled her into the center of the room and then, with his eyes on her, he waved his wand. A glamour lifted from the walls like a curtain being rolled up. Rows upon rows of books were unveiled, stretching all the way up to that vaulted ceiling that she'd admired earlier.

Hermione laughed and clapped her hands, impressed both by the scope of his personal library and by the clever reveal. She didn't know where to look first and had taken a step towards the closest shelf to see if she knew any of the titles, when it occurred to her that a date was probably not the best time to get lost in stacks of books.

He saw the hesitation on her face, and waved her off. "Go ahead, Granger, you know you want to."

She calmly, casually, and not in a rushed way at all, strolled over towards a shelf with colorful plastic covers. They had to be Muggle books and that made her very curious. Along the way, she trailed her fingertips over the bindings, enjoying the thrill of so much unknown speeding by her hand, confident that Draco wouldn't have left out books of dangerous magic that ought not to be touched.

When she reached the large, brightly colored books, she laughed. They were cookbooks! And they all had clever, funny titles: _The Pyromaniac's Cookbook_ , _Love at First Bite-The Complete Vampire Lover's Cookbook_ , _Stud Muffins_ , _Food for Thought_. Many of the books had magical markers on different pages. She assumed some were for recipes he'd tried and some for recipes he wanted to try. When she turned the page to 'Fruit Bat Soup' she was surprised by a loud, honking noise, and the image of a gagging face that hovered over the page.

Draco snickered at her startled expression.

"I gather you didn't like that recipe," she observed, flipping through several more pages. She was surprised at the amount of interest a pureblood would put into cooking and food.

"I told you I know how to cook," Draco said from just over her shoulder. Hermione felt his presence, a warm heat against her back. He'd followed her silently, until he was standing close, peering down at the book in her hands.

After replacing the cookbooks, she continued drifting along the walls, noting some of the interesting subjects. In a section of rare books, she spotted a volume of _Ancient Runes: Elder Fukhart Spellwork_ and pulled it out. Flipping through it, her attention was caught by some of the fascinating diagrams. Her finger started automatically tracing the designs in the air, as she thought about how they would be applied. It was several minutes and several books later before she looked up and realized that Draco was no longer standing near her.

Looking around, she saw that he'd settled himself on the couch in front of the fireplace, and was quietly watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.

She realized that she'd just spent a portion of her date absorbed in books, exactly what she'd told herself not to do, and her cheeks reddened. Hastily, she returned the book in her hand to the corresponding empty spot on the shelf.

"Sorry," she apologized, as she crossed the room, determined to put her attention back on Draco. "Some of the books in your collection are referenced by name in other study materials, but are very difficult to find." The explanation was silly, as Draco was surely aware of how valuable his books were, but she felt the need to excuse herself.

He didn't respond, as she settled onto the couch next to him. Embarrassed by the intense look on his face as he continued to stare at her, she broke away from his gaze to take a sip from the wine glass he'd refilled for her.

"I can't imagine you anywhere but the Wizarding World, Granger."

When she looked at him questioningly, he added, "I tried. I used to try to think that you belonged in the Muggle World, and that you didn't fit in here with the rest of us." The look on his face showed that he expected her to protest.

But she didn't say anything, she just continued sipping from her glass, her eyes on him. Draco never said what he meant. There were always layers and layers before he got to the thing he was trying to say. And in this case, it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before. She'd grown up hearing that she was an interloper, and she'd fought a war for her right—and the rights of others like her—to belong.

"But I couldn't picture what you'd be doing if you weren't scouring obscure magical texts and campaigning for the rights of centaurs and house elves."

"Probably scouring obscure historical texts, and campaigning for the rights of minorities and refugees." Her little joke was lost on him as she saw his eyes had focused down onto her arm. While she'd been reading, she had pushed her sleeves up so they wouldn't get caught on the fragile parchment pages. She tended to forget about the word that was etched there.

"About that night, Granger," he began.

"Hermione," she corrected him, for the first time that evening. She had a feeling that she knew where this was going, and she wasn't going to suffer any efforts at distancing.

"Hermione," he said, his eyes softening as they looked at her. "I've always meant to tell you—"

"You don't have to," she said quickly, shaking her head. "It's okay." His earlier words had been enough to confirm to her that the views his family had espoused on the place of Muggleborns in the Wizarding World were no longer his own.

"No, it's not okay. What happened was not okay." He closed his eyes for a second, before opening them again. "I had nightmares for weeks, waking up to the sounds of you screaming. I couldn't pass the drawing room without feeling sick."

She was surprised it had bothered him that much. She didn't remember him very well from that night, only his crying face as Dobby rescued them all. But perhaps it shouldn't surprise her. War was ugly. Torture was awful. Any decent human being would be bothered by it, and Draco was revealing that even back when they thought he was truly an evil minion of Voldemort's, he was still a decent human being.

"To be fair," Draco was saying, with the tiniest edge of humor in his voice, "there were a lot of rooms in Malfoy Manor I couldn't pass without being sick. We actually closed off an entire wing for a while, after…afterwards."

He grabbed her hands, much like she'd grabbed his earlier. "I just—I've always wanted to tell you that I'm so sorry. It should never have happened. It should never have happened to you in my own home. I'm just—I'm sorry."

She tilted her head to look at him, and her voice was soft. "You don't have to be sorry, Draco, you didn't do anything."

"I know!" His sharp outburst was unexpected, and he followed it with a deep breath. "I didn't do anything. That's the point. I should have. I knew it then, and I just couldn't. So I did nothing, while a woman was tortured on my drawing room floor."

"Draco," she said firmly, resisting the urge to be soothing, "what could you have done? There was nothing that wouldn't have resulted in one or both of us dying, either right then, or later once Voldemort found out you'd tried to rescue me. What else was there for you to do?"

"Something. Anything." Draco's face was stiff. His eyes seemed sad. "Anything else than just letting it happen."

Hermione was silent. She didn't know if he realized he'd used the same words from earlier in the evening, but they seemed to echo in the air.

It was interesting that they both had nightmares about the same night. For Hermione, she'd spent a lot of effort and not a few dollars with a Muggle therapist to move past the trauma of her wartime experiences. Originally she'd covered up the ugly scarring with a glamour, but over time she'd come to be proud of what the scar represented—that she'd stood against oppression and that she'd survived. Unlike the pain of all the loved ones they'd lost, which was invisible scarring on the heart, sometimes she was actually glad to look and see a physical reminder of all that had happened. It seemed to validate the pain. It gave her a reason to get up every day and fight for the rights of someone else.

It was clear Draco had never laid to rest his own demons, and her heart hurt for him, knowing there was nothing she could do or say until he was ready to let the past go. There were a few deaths Harry carried on his heart. There was nothing that could relieve the guilt, and sometimes the shame, and they weighed him down. Those two were more alike than they knew.

She reached up to gently touch Draco's face. When his eyes focused on her, and it looked like he was going to make another apology, she covered his lips with her hand. "I'm glad that you didn't do anything." When he made to protest, she kept her hand in place, and talked over him. "I'm glad that Voldemort is gone. I'm glad that I made it out of the war alive. And I'm glad that you did, too, however that had to happen, even if it meant choosing the safest path in a dishonorable situation. The choices we made are done. And they've brought us here, together." She smiled up at him. "And I'm particularly glad to be right here with you, right now."

She closed the distance between them and kissed him, unconsciously trying to give him the comfort he seemed to be seeking. He was stiff at first, surprised perhaps, but warmed up quickly to the feel of her lips on his. He moved his mouth against hers, and the arm that was around her on the back of the couch drew her closer as his other arm banded around her.

She melted into him, letting him press her back into the cushions.

~~~OOO~~~

He didn't deserve this. The soft looks, the affectionate glances, the hard kisses. He didn't deserve any of it and certainly never imagined he'd be snogging Hermione Granger on his couch. But he'd take it.

Because Malfoys may be cowards, but they were also opportunists. And if after revealing some of his most shameful thoughts, she still wanted him, he would take advantage of that opportunity.

She tasted like the wine, and he wasn't sure if it was that or the feel of her curves under his hand that was making him light-headed. They'd never been truly alone in a private place where he could explore the shape of her body, and he found he was craving that knowledge.

He dragged his hand up along her legs that were curled up on the couch, tracing over her jean-clad thighs and hips. He loved her legs in those jeans. He loved more that when he came to the tops of the jeans, he encountered the bare skin under her blouse.

He hesitated, wondering if they needed to set some boundaries, but her mouth on his turned hotter at the feel of his fingertips on her. She squirmed closer to him, pressing her body against his, one leg coming up to wrap around his waist. He took advantage of that move to tumble her backwards, taking only an instant to appreciate the sight of her hair spilling over the edge of the couch.

Then he was moving and settling himself against her, before kissing her again.

She moaned into his mouth. The feel of his body heavy on hers was divine. He wasn't a large man, his build was wiry and athletic, and she could feel the firm muscles of his chest and back under her hands. She let her hands wander down towards his arse, wondering if it was as firm as it looked. When her hand sneaked down into the back of his trousers, sliding against his bare skin, she felt him pant into her mouth, and she giggled when he mumbled, "Shit, Granger."

But then he added, "See how you like it," and his hand in her blouse slid all the way up until he was cupping her breast through her bra.

She arched a bit into his hand, nibbling on his bottom lip as she indicated that, actually, she liked it very much.

His thumb played over the padded nipple, and Hermione's legs tightened around him, trying to pull him closer. He undid a few of the buttons on her blouse, until his mouth could reach the tops of her breasts. The feel of his warm, wet tongue on her skin made her sigh, and then the feel of his hand questing underneath her bra to cup one firm breast had her squirming again.

His teeth scraped along her collarbone, making her feel deliciously like he wanted to devour her, and she wriggled against him, his hard body sending off exciting sparks all along her skin.

Merlin, he was really good at this. Between his mouth and his hands, she was having trouble keeping a coherent thought in her head.

"Hermione," he whispered against her neck, the need in his voice sending a thrill down her spine. He truly wanted her. She couldn't remember when anyone had seemed to want her in this feverish, frantic sort of way. When anyone had said her name in that tone like they were overheating with desire, desperate to touch her.

She let her fingers run through his hair as he licked at her again, barely noticing how his hands had moved downwards and were drifting down into her trousers until the feel of his long fingers cupping her arse released this incredible liquid longing all down her thighs—longing for his fingers to move further down, to feel some friction against her core.

Now her kisses turned frantic, too. She grabbed at his mouth, trying to convey the urgency she was suddenly feeling to have him touch her everywhere. There were definitely too many clothes in the way. She reached down to find the snaps on his trousers, and as they loosened, her questing hand found him rock hard.

They both gasped, the shock of the physical connection running through them like an electric current. And then Draco's fierce mouth was kissing her again, sucking and biting at her tongue and her lips as his hand unsnapped her bra and freed her breasts inside the confines of her shirt.

Her hand had wrapped around his length, through the open vee of his trousers, and she was trying to free him by shoving the trousers down with the other hand when she distantly thought she heard bells.

It took a moment to register the chiming sound of a Floo call.

Draco broke from Hermione's mouth, leaving them both panting, and trying to reorient themselves. Draco recovered first, and didn't even bother buttoning his trousers back up as he knelt by the fireplace. When he answered the call, Harry's head popped through.

"Malfoy, gear up! We've got a lead on Travers. Briefing in 10 minutes." There was a slight pause, during which Hermione wondered whether or not Harry noticed her disheveled state on the couch, and then Harry's head disappeared without waiting for Draco's answer.

She was still breathing hard when Draco came arrowing straight back to her. He covered her body with his, leaning her all the way back against the cushions, in almost the exact position they were in before the call came in. He kissed her, hard, his hands firmly grasped around her hips, as he pushed his center up against hers, leaving her with no mistaking his desire. Funny little pulses of sensation rippled up from her thighs.

She meant to protest, but it took her a second to blink away the flashing lights behind her eyes, and then she mumbled against his mouth, "Draco, don't you have to go?"

He sighed, his hands loosening from her sides and coming up to frame her face. He gave her another short peck on the lips and then rested his forehead against hers, taking shallow breaths. "Yeah, I have to leave, I don't know for how long."

"Okay," she said, disappointed that their evening was being cut short, but understanding the circumstances.

He nuzzled the soft skin on the side of her neck. "I would rather stay here with you."

She giggled. "Well, who wouldn't rather a snog on the couch, than chasing after Dark wizards?"

At that, he pulled back to look at her, his grey eyes stormy. "It was going to be a sight more than a snog on the couch, Hermione Granger."

Her heart beat a rapid pulse in her throat at his words. She'd wondered if she was ready for that next stage of their relationship. But her aching body, her mouth swollen from kisses, and the way she lay lax under his weight told her she would have gone further than heavy snogging on the couch. She was feeling decidedly disappointed, actually, that they didn't have the luxury of exploring each other any further at the moment.

He grinned wolfishly at her, as if reading her mind. "Next time," he promised. "And trust me, I'm not going to forget."

She nearly shivered in anticipation.

Later that night, as she was back at home reliving their date, she did shiver thinking about what had almost happened. And thinking that she quite definitely wanted more.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this chapter took longer than I thought. I had to do some research into something for a plot point later, and I didn't seem to have any time. I have just finished submitting my fic for the H&V If the Prompt Fits Fest, and I'm really excited about itThe Fest starts posting on H&V on February 14, and I will post my story here on FFN when the Fest is complete (probably closer to the beginning of March). ! I've spent most of the last three months working on it. But now that the writing is over, I plan on focusing on DBD alone for the next few months. I'd really like to finish it! Your encouragement is wonderful! (Btw, the cookbook titles are all real titles, and I don't own the rights to any of them.)

As a side note, I've been making aesthetics to go with my new chapter announcements on Facebook. If anyone has made any fanart for this story, or would like to, I'd really love to feature it when I promote my new chapters. So send me a PM here on FFN or on Facebook (Maloreiy Webster). And, don't forget to check out Bower Birds, my latest one-shot featuring Neville & Luna and a Marriage Law!


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Light rain was falling steadily on the two men who were crouched on the rooftop. Rather than using a water-repelling charm, they were exposed to the elements, out of concern that the shimmer of droplets bouncing off of a shield might alert others to their presence. Not that there were any others in sight.

They'd been watching the building on and off for several days, ever since Harry had first Floo-called Draco about their lead on Travers.

For the last couple of years, the Aurors had been systematically rounding up all of the Death Eaters who had escaped or gone into hiding during the last Wizarding War. Some of them, like Jugson or Rowle, were just trying to put the war behind them and make a new life. In those cases, they were brought to justice for their war crimes but granted the opportunity to apply for a program where they could make themselves useful to Wizarding society and integrate fully back into the world.

Technically, Draco had been the first unofficial recipient of such open-mindedness and yes, mercy. Having been tried immediately after Voldemort's death, and then serving an incredibly short sentence due to his youth, he'd already been granted a provisional position within the Auror department before the first of the missing Death Eaters and Dark Wizards had been smoked out and convicted.

Since then, Draco had been a staunch advocate for former Death Eaters who just wanted to live quiet, law-abiding lives. He was also the most aggressive about tracking down the witches and wizards who were still considered 'Dark & Dangerous'. Wizards like Travers.

Travers was well-known for his xenophobic obsession with blood purity and his hatred of all things Muggle, including the so-called blood traitors who he viewed contemptuously as weak-minded fools. Since Harry had Imperio'd him all those years ago, he'd been violent and angry, taking Voldemort's defeat as a personal affront.

Over the years, there had been the occasional glimpse of him, but nothing concrete to go on. He had refrained from the poorly planned and clumsily executed missions of vengeance that had dotted the political landscape in the year after the war.

Recently though, there had been a surge of Dark activity. Several seemingly unconnected events-from stolen Dark texts to unexpected pockets of Dementors, and even an imported Lethifold-were indicating that there was possibly a resurgence of organized activity.

There wasn't any proof that Travers was involved with any of those things. But no one, least of all Harry, had been fooled into thinking that meant he would not be a concern in the near future. Potter treated every name on his list as the possible next Dark Lord.

That's why even now they were on the rooftop watching an empty building across the street. Several Auror teams had taken shifts to give the building coverage around the clock, but Malfoy and Potter handled most of them. Harry was convinced Travers was up to something, and he was determined to find out what it was.

Still, Draco wished he wasn't so adamant about not having a shield charm just for the water. At least Potter allowed him a bit of a Warming Charm, so he didn't catch a chill while they sat in their soggy robes taking turns observing the building through their Omnioculars.

They'd long ago cast a modified Sound-Proofing Charm around them that kept their voices from carrying beyond the boundary of the stone wall that edged the flat roof of their chosen location. And a good thing, too, since the two men spent most of their time bickering.

"Potter, nothing has changed in 72 hours, I don't see why we can't switch out already!" They sat with their backs leaned against the wall, heads well below any angle that could be seen from the other buildings. Draco was taking his turn to view the building, casting a practiced eye over it. This particular Omniocular was a slim contraption, long and bendy, that could be twisted and aimed behind them and could see magical objects as well as Muggle. They hid it in a crack between the stones so it couldn't be seen.

The other Auror teams used a variety of spells and mirrors to see across the street without being noticed, but Harry had a special custom-made scope from George Weasley's shop that made their shifts go much easier, making Draco wonder why George spent so much time on joke items when he could make more (and more respectable) money crafting actually useful items.

"Malfoy, I already told you, we accepted the shift, we'll finish it out. Quit whinging." Sitting the way they were, the rain collected in little pools in the fronts of their robes. Harry had arranged his clothing into more of a bowl for the water, and periodically, he would flick the accumulated water at Draco, making Draco wonder how he and the Weasel had ever accomplished anything together.

It was silly, as both men were already completely soaked through. Yet, it never failed to make Draco clench his jaw in irritation. He sniffed disdainfully, trying to ignore Harry as he snickered at his well-aimed droplets. "It's hardly whinging to point out that we take twice as many shifts as any of the other partners, and no one would think it unfair for us to get out of the rain for a bit."

"If I didn't know better, Malfoy, I'd think you were made of sugar the way you're always so worried about melting."

"Hardly," he scoffed. "It's just so—"

"Undignified," Harry finished for him with a huffy sigh. "Yes, I know. You've only mentioned it about a thousand times." He switched to a haughty upper-class accent. "Malfoy Rule #117: A Malfoy never allows himself to be blasphemed with rain, particularly on his perfectly blond hair. Also, water in general is only for the lower classes. A Malfoy never bathes, only washes the soil of the peasants off with streams of magic."

Draco's mouth twitched a tiny bit, refusing to admit that Harry was being funny. He tried to remind himself to have patience with Potter, as his only examples for propriety and manners came from Weasleys, and everyone knew they were hardly models worth imitating. In response to Potter's boyish grin, he said, "You would make a terrible Malfoy."

"Thank Merlin for that!" Harry quipped, wiping his brow in an exaggerated gesture of relief.

That grin was still on his face, though, so Draco added, pointedly, "You do, however, sound exactly like Great-Aunt Walburga."

Harry made a face of horror, and both men laughed quietly at their shared distant relative.

"I'd forgotten what she sounded like," Harry mused. "It's been a long time since I've heard her screeching voice shouting obscenities." He shivered in remembrance, and Draco cringed at his own memories of the voice that was like a hundred house elves ironing their hands.

"Figured out how to get her picture off the wall, did you?" he asked, impressed despite himself.

"Oh, no, Hermione got tired of the constant stream of epithets being hissed at her whenever she visited, so she silenced her and then covered her up with fabric printed all over with Gordon the Gopher's face. And now whenever she comes by, she uncovers the portrait and squeaks loudly like a gopher until Aunt Walburga gets all red in the face screaming things no one can hear."

Both men laughed heartily at that, even though Draco had no idea who Gordon the Gopher was. Anyone getting the better of stuffy Aunt Walburga was funny enough.

He looked forward to asking Hermione all about it later. They did have plans to spend time together as it was nearly the weekend again. Other than a few heavy snogs snuck around work, they'd barely seen each other, and he found the days seemed much longer than normal when he was stuck in the dreary rain with no hope of 'accidentally' running across her.

Harry sighed, throwing his hands up dramatically. "There you go again." He took the scope back so that he could examine the empty street below them and the unchanging building.

"What are you talking about now, Potter?"

"It's your eyes. I only have to bring up her name, and they get all soft and misty. It's revolting, really," he said with fake disdain.

"Captivated by my eyes, are you, Potter?" Draco said, nastily, to hide the fact that it disturbed him to think the expression on his face had been that easy to read. Was he losing all of his Slytherin qualities from spending so much time with Gryffindors? That was definitely unacceptable.

"No, I just enjoy watching Draco Malfoy, of _the_ Malfoys, Sacred Twenty-Eight even, reduced to gibbering mush, with heart pupils and everything, over a nerdy little bookworm," he answered, cheerily, grinning at him from around the scope.

Draco tried scowling, at least for consistency, but his heart wasn't in it. His irritated mood from the weather was suddenly relieved by the introduction of his favorite topic. " _My_ nerdy little bookworm," he muttered quietly to himself, and it sent a tiny thrill down his spine, as it always did, to use the possessive adjective.

That's right, he told himself, she was his. And if he wanted to have soft, misty eyes about that, he damn well would.

Harry laughed so hard at the pouty expression on his face, he nearly started choking. "You know, if anyone had told my Hogwarts self that we'd be here one day, partners on a stakeout, and that you'd be dating my best friend, I would have thought they were completely barmy."

"Considering your best friend was the Weasel," Draco said, sardonically, "I'm pretty sure that would have shocked everyone."

Harry sobered, as he usually did every time Ron was mentioned. He didn't flinch like Hermione did, pretending that his name didn't hurt. But his eyes always got sad, like there was a part of him that was missing. Draco almost regretted bringing him up, but he wasn't about to tiptoe around the subject. Not only did he think it was silly, but then people would suspect him of having more than the occasional feeling, and he really couldn't have that.

Draco took his turn with the Omnioculars to avoid continuing that line of conversation. The building remained empty and lifeless. He scanned the whole front of the building, taking special care to check if there was anything different from the last time he'd looked. He was much more observant than Potter was, and was more likely to spot a single item out of place. But there was nothing worth noting, again, and Draco scowled once more at being out in the rain with no cover when they could have been delegating the whole thing to junior Aurors.

As Draco sat back, Harry decided it was time to return back to the topic at hand.

"So, since you are dating my best friend," he started, segueing with a finesse only a Gryffindor could appreciate, "Ginny's been bugging me to have the two of you over for dinner."

"I'm not doing a happy double-date with the Potters," Draco said. "Not now, not ever." Then he shuddered dramatically.

"Ginny and I are already married," Harry pointed out. "It would hardly be a date. More like…chaperoning, I suppose."

Draco didn't have trouble with a scowl this time. "Even worse!"

There was a glint in Harry's eyes as they narrowed in suspicion at Draco. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Too late, Draco realized he may have just walked himself into a trap. He was a grown man, and she was a grown woman. And he rather thought that very soon they were going to confirm those thoughts for themselves, in a naked sort of way. But it surprised him to be suddenly-and unexpectedly-faced with an overprotective family member, and he was at a loss as to what the appropriate response would be.

He sputtered a bit, and then said, "It means I don't need your help, Potter. We're doing fine on our own."

"Yes, but have you two gone public, yet? Ginny said that Hermione said that you'd only been out in the Muggle world where people wouldn't recognize you. Have you introduced her to any of your friends, yet?" Harry paused there, and then raised his hands up as if warding off an argument. "Right, right, you don't have any."

Draco glared at him, not even bothering to argue the point. He was mostly right, anyway.

"Well, what about your family, then?" Harry continued. "Surely you're going to need to take the possible future Mrs Malfoy to go meet the current Mrs Malfoy."

Draco's stomach flipped in circles. First of all, he'd never referred to Hermione as even possibly being the 'future Mrs Malfoy' because those are the kinds of thoughts that can get a man in all sorts of trouble. Those are the kinds of things teenage girls doodled on their parchment in History of Magic class. Those are the words ex-Death Eaters like him didn't go around saying for fear of jeopardizing the only good thing in his life. And Potter just said it out loud like it was nothing. He fucking hated being around Gryffindors.

But second of all, the thought of Hermione walking back into Malfoy Manor, and taking tea in the drawing room she was tortured in, in order to make small talk with his estranged pure-blood mother, was enough to make him feel quite ill.

Harry must have recognized the panic on his face, as he suddenly looked very concerned. "I'm sure it will be fine, Malfoy." Seeing that Draco still looked unusually pale, he tried to backtrack a bit. "Your mum will love her, because she's Hermione. And at any rate, you don't have to worry about that for a while, yet. You can both figure all that out when the time comes."

Draco could tell Harry wanted to pat him comfortingly on the shoulder, so he glared at him even harder to remind him to keep his distance. Miraculously, Harry kept his hands to himself, angling the scope so he could take his turn looking for clues.

"If it makes you so nervous, it's best to start small, then," Harry said, offhandedly, one eye pressed to the scope while the other one shut in a piratical manner. "A select group of people who already know and are supportive. Sounds like dinner at my house next weekend!" He smiled gleefully. "I'll be sure to let Ginny know."

Before Draco could protest the heavy-handed manipulation, Potter made an urgent motion with his hands.

"Shit, something's happening!"

All their conversation was forgotten as Draco switched into Auror mode. Since Potter had the scope, Draco cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and turned around to peek his head up over the stones, just enough to see what was happening down below. Two men were slowly approaching the building, walking as if they were regular blokes out for a stroll, having a conversation.

Even from that distance, it was clear that one of the men was Travers, as there was no mistaking that bulk. Their intelligence had been correct, and their diligence was about to pay off.

The other man was older, and walked with a certain flair to his step, but his face was hidden by the shadows from the brim of his dark hat. As they passed near to one of the large front-facing windows, they both stopped and carefully scanned their surroundings.

Draco ducked just in case they noticed something off about his charm. "What's happening?" he asked.

"They just disappeared," Harry whispered, heedless of the sound charm that was still around them. "Took a step and vanished."

There was no crack of Apparition, and no evidence of Portkey usage. So it was obvious there was a concealed entryway into the building.

"Looks like we're not going anywhere now, Malfoy," Harry said, quietly. After several days with nothing to report, Kingsley would at least be happy to know that their time was not wasted. And now that it was obvious they were in the correct location, Harry would likely redouble his efforts to find out what the Death Eaters were up to.

"Did you get a glimpse of the other man?" Draco asked. "I couldn't get a clear view of him under the hat."

Harry looked grim. "It was Rookwood."

It took Draco only a second to process that information. "Shit."

Neither one had to explain. Augustus Rookwood had been at the top of their list for most dangerous Dark wizards still at large, but he had gone underground right after Voldemort had been defeated. Though the rumors had persisted that he was involved in leading some of the criminal organizations they'd uncovered, they'd never been able to prove that he was involved, and no one they'd ever arrested had had any proof that he was still around. A curious fact, when it was well known that Augustus Rookwood always hid in plain sight.

Rookwood was particularly dangerous because he had been an Unspeakable before being outed as a spy during the war. Charismatic and intelligent, he had the ability to plan and execute those plans far above the levels of the average minion of the Dark Lord. His history of work in the Department of Mysteries also meant that he might have knowledge and information on subjects that were not included in his classified files. If he was involved, there was a good chance their mission had just escalated far beyond that of an ordinary capture.

"I'll send a message to Kingsley right away," Harry said. "And we'll see what else we can uncover while we're here. What are they using the building for? What are they doing together? What's their ultimate goal?"

Draco didn't bother answering, as he'd learned early on that Harry liked to talk to himself when he was puzzling out a problem. If he knew the answers to those questions, they wouldn't be sitting out there in the rain, now would they?

As he was muttering under his breath, Harry suddenly threw a question out that wasn't rhetorical. "Malfoy, why did you cast the Patronus?"

The question startled Draco, not because it seemed to come out of nowhere, but because he'd already answered it several times. In the days after that fateful rescue of Ron Weasley, he'd been debriefed and cross-examined repeatedly to try and find out what exactly had gone wrong, and why Draco had made the choices that he had.

The fact that Draco had used a Patronus was common knowledge, and shocking in itself, as it was widely believed that Death Eaters (current and former) were incapable of producing a Patronus charm. Even Draco had a twinge of doubt when he'd cast it, wondering if he was about to be eaten alive by maggots. But what was known to only a few, those who had been in the actual battle, and those who had needed to know the details, was that there were no Dementors in that battle.

There was no reason for Draco to have attempted a Patronus charm. More importantly, there was no reason for it to have worked.

Draco had been hard-pressed to explain his reasoning, particularly since he'd been under considerable stress in an urgent situation.

Ron Weasley had been separated from the rest of his team, and the knot of Dark wizards had created a nasty web of Dark magic that he'd been trapped by. No one had been able to get close, despite the fact that Weasley was screaming like he was being Crucio'ed, until Draco had charged in with a flurry of hexes and sliced straight through the heavy magical wards. The team had immediately taken advantage of the hole he'd made to begin picking off the wizards, and to retrieve Weasley once Draco had flung him outside the immediate location of the spell boundaries.

But the spell had surged again, and that was when he'd gotten trapped, screaming as his back arched with pain that he later described as if a shovel of fire were digging his lungs out of his ribcage. And as the Aurors advanced, renewing their efforts, they'd seen him raise his wand, and cry out, "Expecto Patronum!"

To everyone's surprise, not only had the brightest of white light shot out of the end of his wand, but it had blasted through the magic of the wizards, knocking them all out, and temporarily blinding all of the Aurors. When everyone had shaken off their surprise and recovered, they'd found Draco unconscious on the floor, wand still clutched in his hand, and all of the Dark wizards similarly unconscious. And no sign of what they'd been trying to accomplish.

Draco sighed, not liking to remember that day, not least because rescuing Ron Weasley was one of the worst decisions of his life. It didn't quite rank up there with taking the Dark Mark, or trying to kill Dumbledore, but it rankled in his soul. He rubbed at his chest, the memory of how that blazing emptiness had gnawed at him causing him to wince.

"I don't know, Potter," he said, tiredly. "There was something about the way the magic felt. You don't live for so long with Dementors sailing in and out of your home, and the Dark Lord constantly hovering about, and not become familiar with what it feels like to be near them."

"There's a coldness, a crawling sense of fear and dread," Harry said, remembering his own numerous encounters. "Like everything good and happy was being smothered, replaced with despair and death.

Draco didn't bother nodding. "It was more than that though. It was like everything that was good or happy inside was being forcibly ripped out through my sternum. I suppose I imagined it was what a Dementor's Kiss might be like." They both shuddered at that thought.

Then Draco quietly admitted what he hadn't said in all of the other debriefings. "I don't know, Potter. I don't know what I was thinking. I can't explain why it seemed like the right choice, or why it seemed to work on regular Dark wizards. I don't even really remember doing it. I just remember trying to hold onto one good memory, and feeling like everything was ripping apart. And then nothing."

Harry was silent for several moments, his eyes still glued to the Omnioculars that were focused on the building opposite where their two targets had disappeared.

He finally pulled away from the scope and faced the man with the wet blond hair plastered to his head. "Draco," he said, his green eyes serious, causing Draco the tiniest bit of alarm at the use of his first name. "I can't explain what I'm thinking, or why I'm thinking it. But something tells me you need to start practicing that Patronus charm."

Draco forbore to mention that he'd already tried it on his own several times since then, and only occasionally managed the incorporeal version of the charm. It was a useful tool to have in your arsenal when you never knew when you might run into a Dementor.

But the way that Potter gave his advice without a hint of his usual jocularity carried an extra weight with Draco. He just nodded, and didn't question Potter's intuition. Everyone knew he had an uncanny knack of knowing just exactly what would be needed to save the world.

Draco reached out his hand for the scope, and then looked through it at the street that was once again empty and uninteresting. "I don't suppose we're going to be headed home soon?"

Harry shook his head. "Not yet."

Draco sighed and pushed the Omnioculars back to his partner. He shucked off his water-logged outer robes, wringing them before tossing them aside. He should have done that long ago, as they were no longer doing any good protecting him from the elements. Then, he recast the Warming Charm on his clothes and Potter's—because the man was likely to forget once he'd put his focus on the task at hand, and Draco couldn't have people holding him responsible for Harry Potter catching his death of cold—and settled in for another long afternoon.

* * *

A/N: Hello lovely readers. I have not forgotten you. I have not forgotten this story. I've been busy doing some other things, though. I joined some Facebook writer groups that have gotten me writing more, but not always focused on the things I THINK I want to be writing. I recently wrote a one-shot Dramione that won Runner Up for Best Relationship, and I'm quite proud of it. I'll have to revise a bit before I post it on FFN, but it's up on A03 if anyone wants to check it out. I'm slowly migrating my stories to A03 as well, though I will continue to post all appropriate things on H&V and FFN as well. (Explicit material will only be available on A03 and on H&V to registered users. As H&V is only for Dramione, eventually the most complete place to find all my works will be A03.)

Anyway, I've also joined Camp NaNoWriMo this month, which is how this chapter got written in three days, when I'd been stalled for six weeks. My cabin has been amazing and keeping us all writing and on task. I hope that by the end of April I will have at least one more chapter (mostly written already) for you all. My goal is to have 25k words written on this fic by the end of the month. I have a feeling I will fail, BUT each chapter is a success and so far this camp has produced at least this chapter, so I'm pleased with it.

Also, a big thank you to some of my new friends, brandinm05 (who volunteered to try her hand at beta-reading), and Ariel Riddle (who offers great feedback and insight on my story as it progresses).


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Hermione was running late. She was supposed to be meeting Draco in a few minutes so they could Apparate to a little pub he wanted to take her to.

But she was stuck, not even half-dressed, looking at herself in the mirror. She tended to avoid the mirrors in her flat, only giving them a cursory glance as she fixed her hair or applied a light make-up glamour.

Tonight was special, though. She was pretty sure that tonight was _the night_. The dramatic italics were a remnant of the hushed conversations she'd overheard in the Gryffindor dormitory as a teenager. A relationship taking that next step was surely worth a little bit of italic emphasis. She'd known that they were heading that direction—had nearly jumped ahead a few steps last week on the couch at his flat—but the knowledge that it was probably, most likely, going to happen _tonight_ had her anxiety levels running high.

It wasn't that she was afraid of sex—she wasn't. And if the kisses she and Draco had occasionally been stealing in the corridors of the Ministry were any indication, there was nothing amiss with her sex drive. It was easy when his mouth was on hers, making her forget all of the doubts and the insecurities. She wasn't thinking about anything else when he kissed her, except how much she wanted that feeling to go on and on.

When his hands crept down over her backside, molding her to him, she could feel his arousal and it was like sparks shooting up and down under her skin. Her body responded without her even thinking about it. He'd laughed at her a little bit last time when she almost tried to wrap her leg around his waist, right there inside her office with the door wide open and Melinda pretending she wasn't listening. She'd colored up, only slightly embarrassed at letting herself get carried away. He'd teasingly kissed the side of her neck and then left. He'd only stopped in to tell her he wasn't able to take lunch with her, and the goodbye kiss had escalated much too quickly. But, Merlin, the man was a phenomenal kisser, so she really couldn't take too much of the blame.

She sighed, and her reflection in the mirror sighed, too. So why was she second-guessing herself?

Standing in her slightly chilly bedroom in nothing but her underwear, she was particularly unimpressed with the sight before her. The hazy warmth of their last mind-numbing kiss was very far away. In her lonely bedroom that had only ever seen one occupant before—well, two with Crookshanks—she had trouble seeing herself as the same sexy woman that teased and flirted and grew heated at a knowing glance from across the room.

She was afraid that woman was an illusion. She dressed right, she entered a room confidently, she delivered a saucy wink with just the right amount of sauce, she responded to a kiss with all the fire that Gryffindors were known for. She desperately wanted to _be_ that woman, the woman she thought she'd been before…before Ron.

The bed behind her that she could glimpse in the mirror was brand new and had never once seen her ex-fiancé in it. But almost as if it was playing directly from her memories, she could picture him lying there, the disdainful look on his face as she tried to be the things he'd asked for.

He'd said she was boring in bed—unimaginative, stiff, passionless. " _Merlin, Hermione, you'd think you could give me a little something to work with, yeah?"_

At first it had been more of a joke, how she was 'too vanilla' and how she'd obviously never read any of the more 'interesting' books in the Restricted Section. But the comments had slowly gotten meaner, and had hit her harder where she hadn't realized she was vulnerable. He made fun of her boyish slim body, frequently lamenting about how it would have been so nice if her breasts were bigger, plumper, fuller. Completely popping out of her blouse, in other words, as was clear whenever he saw a woman who was much more generously endowed and he would waggle his eyebrows at Hermione as if to say, 'See? Like that.'

Once, she'd made an attempt at dirty talk, after spending several days meticulously scouring the shelves for something that could teach her how to be more fun, more sexy in bed. She'd ended up in a Muggle pharmacy in Derby with several tabloid magazines that all advertised lessons in exactly what she was looking for. She'd charmed the covers to look like something more innocuous and then sat on a bench far away from home trying to decipher if what 'every man wanted' was what _her_ man wanted.

She'd no sooner got partway through some of the phrases she'd memorized when he'd suddenly said, _"Hermione, just stop, you're no bloody good at this."_

She shook her head, trying to clear that voice from her thoughts. She well remembered how her eyes had welled up with tears but he hadn't noticed because he'd long past decided sex with her was better in the dark. He'd just finished up like he normally did, and she'd waited for him to fall asleep before she crept out of bed and incinerated all of those magazines.

No, she wasn't afraid of sex. But she was afraid that Draco was going to buy into the illusion that she'd been giving him. She'd almost convinced herself that it wasn't an illusion, that she'd grown and changed and healed and exorcised those voices that mostly just sounded like Ron's. But then she'd made the mistake of looking into the mirror, foolishly wondering which of two short dresses was more likely to drive Draco batty, and she'd caught a glimpse of herself looking exactly the same as she'd looked last year—last year when Ron had been cheating on her with Merlin knew how many women.

She was suddenly very afraid that when she was finally stripped down to just what there was in the mirror, that Draco was going to be disappointed. And she didn't think she could bear that. Not again.

Her wand chimed a warning that she had ten minutes before she had to meet Draco. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the view in front of her, and resisted the urge to whimper in panic.

She was stronger than this. She was a Gryffindor. Even when she was afraid, she faced those fears and moved forward.

She told herself, in a litany that was almost comfortable, so many times had she said it, that Ronald Weasley was an arse. A foolish, selfish, ignorant buffoon whose opinions, however loudly he might express them, did not constitute fact. He still thought the Cannons were a good team, for Merlin's sake! And he married Lavender Brown, after all, so the joke—the cosmic joke—must surely be on him.

With eyes still closed, she turned from the mirror and opened them to look again at the two dresses still laid out on her bed. With a deep breath she chose the lighter of the two, a casual golden brown that reminded her of natural sugar, remembering that Draco had said his favorite color was brown. The sleeves were long and the neckline modest, limiting skin contact. But the hem fell to well above her knees, drawing attention to her legs, which would look great in the new chocolate boots she'd bought last month. It would make her feel sexy. And then maybe it would be true.

Her hands shook only a tiny bit as she buttoned herself into the dress, forcefully pushing away all the negative thoughts that were still clamoring for attention, and instead focusing on the fact that it might be someone else's hands unbuttoning her at the end of the night.

She thought of the smirk on Draco's face when he'd kissed her that morning and flipped open the topmost button on her blouse. She'd swatted him, but he'd seemed so pleased with himself that she'd left it that way for the rest of the day, pretending not to notice when his eye fell on it during the lunch they ate with Harry. The memory of his dark eyes rekindled a tiny flame in her belly and sent a shiver of warmth through her.

Whether it was that or the fact that she was finally clothed, the cold that had felt like it was seeping into her bones was almost entirely chased away. She smiled to herself, and didn't glance in the mirror even once on her way out the door.

~oOo~

Hermione was surprised as they walked into The Den. She didn't know what she had been expecting of a pub Draco frequented, but this wasn't it. The place was positively warm and welcoming. She did a double-take looking around to make sure that they hadn't mistaken the location.

The tables and chairs were all made of wood, looked to be hand-crafted, and had a cheerful kind of wear and tear on the glossy finishes that said good friends frequently met here. There were window boxes hanging along the walls that looked to contain a variety of herbs that didn't seem to serve any other purpose than freshening the air.

Against one wall was the bar. It was clean and open, surrounded by several laughing faces and she could hear the sounds of ice rattling in glasses.

As Draco pulled her towards a little table in the far corner, she looked up to see that the ceiling was painted a light yellow giving the impression of a bright, sunny sky. She liked it, actually. It seemed like a wonderful homey place and she was surprised she'd never heard of it before.

She felt instantly at ease. Her nerves from earlier had begun dissipating, almost as if by magic, from the moment that she'd met up with Draco and he'd taken her hand. His eyes had darkened just a little as he took in her short skirt and her bare legs. He hadn't remarked on either, though his hand had squeezed hers just a little bit tighter.

By the time they'd arrived at the pub, she'd almost forgotten those fragile thoughts in front of the mirror at home, reveling in Draco's hot glances and the kiss he'd stolen right before he opened the door and ushered her in.

The atmosphere of the pub itself did a lot to soothe her remaining nerves, especially about appearing in public in the Wizarding World together. Thus far they'd avoided anywhere that would have reporters who might be tempted to print sensational stories about the two of them. But they hadn't discussed their plans, and she was surprised that Draco had wanted to go out at all.

She was even more surprised that Draco seemed to be comfortable with both the ambience and the company of the kind of wizards and witches that would spend time here. In his dark turtleneck and trousers, covered with his dark robes, Draco seemed unusually pale and out of place. His platinum hair which sometimes seemed harsh and as bright as a beacon out in the sunlight, seemed softened by the yellow ceiling-sky.

Where the others all seemed to be wearing simple clothing, Draco's expensive robes and boots marked him as an outsider. Strangely, no one else seemed to notice or remark upon what must surely be an unusual guest.

Draco's glance around the room was quick and though she expected him to make an assessment of the room as all of her other Auror friends habitually did, she rather thought he was looking for something. After a moment, during which she was sure he'd noted every person in the room, his attention turned to her. Whatever he was checking for, he didn't seem to find it, and he seemed rather satisfied about that.

"Would you like me to get you a drink?" he offered, pulling a chair out for her to sit in.

She smiled at him. "I'll have a glass of elderflower wine," she said, and he went off towards the bar to get their order.

She stared at him as he walked away, wondering why he seemed so much more at ease than usual. Whenever they were out in public he tended to be very stiff and wary of his surroundings. There must be something about the place that made him feel comfortable. She could understand why. In just the few moments she'd been there, she felt a wonderful warm feeling of what she could only term as … acceptance.

While she was trying to figure out why that might be, the door to the pub opened and she spied a couple of familiar faces. Ernie McMillan entered the pub laughing, followed by Susan Bones, who was smiling, as if they'd just shared an inside joke.

Susan Bones and Ernie MacMillan were Aurors in Harry's department, so she had seen them frequently whenever visiting with Harry and Ron. Susan had been in several of Hermione's classes at Hogwarts, and the two had been good friends. After the Battle of Hogwarts, many of the surviving members of Dumbledore's Army had gone straight into Auror training, and no one was surprised that Susan was one of them. Her family had been viciously slaughtered by Voldemort in the First Wizarding War, and she'd lost her aunt shortly before the outbreak of the Second one. She was a good dueller, with steady hands and a clever mind. Harry had mentioned more than once how Susan was a solid addition to any team.

Ernie was a bit of a different story. No one was quite sure how he ended up being an Auror. He was a bit more academically inclined, much like Hermione was, and though he had also been a member of DA, the skillset he offered to the Auror department was a lot harder to pinpoint. For a short (ridiculously short) period of time he'd been partnered with Draco. For his own safety, he was reassigned. But Ernie was well-liked—he was considered a good bloke, reliable and trustworthy, and he was quick with a joke and a smile.

His eyes lit up as they landed on Hermione, and he elbowed Susan to point her out in the crowd. Susan's distinctive auburn plait swung behind her as she turned to wave at Hermione. The two then turned to look behind them as a third member of their party came in, and they must have said something to her, because Hannah Abbot's eyes zeroed in on Hermione as well. Her mouth opened in a little "o" of surprise, and the three exchanged quick glances among themselves.

But then they were all smiles and waves, and before Hermione knew what was happening, there were hugs and claps on the shoulder as if she didn't see them regularly at work.

A couple of other small tables were wobbled over and placed adjacent to her little square, and the edges magically sealed together to form a larger table. As Hermione looked around the room, she noticed that all of the tables were made up of magically joined smaller tables. Apparently, it was very common to push tables together and join parties.

Chairs were also pulled up, and Hermione had just enough presence of mind to pull one chair next to her for when Draco got back.

"Hermione!" Ernie exclaimed, settling himself into the chair Hermione had just tried to save. "What brings you here?"

But before she could answer, a wine glass was settled in front of her, and she looked up to see that the irritable taciturn look had returned to Draco's face. "MacMillan, get out of my chair," he ordered, without preamble.

Ernie waved at him dismissively. "Now, now, Malfoy, I was just saying hello. Look who's here! It's Hermione!"

Across the table, Hermione caught Hannah Abbot trying not to snicker. Susan also wore a slight smile on her face that seemed to be directed at Ernie. Or Draco. Or both.

"Out, MacMillan. Now." It was the tone of voice that usually made even battle-hardened Aurors quiver a bit in fear. Draco's hand wasn't anywhere near his wand, but everyone knew that Draco Malfoy didn't need his wand to be dangerous.

"Oh, he's in a good mood today," Susan observed.

Ernie, whether because of a special skill or a lack of an important quality of self-preservation, didn't seem remotely fazed by Draco's tone. "Blimey, Drake, I was just being friendly." He slowly, deliberately, shifted himself one seat over. "Better?"

Draco just glared and pulled out the chair to seat himself, one arm casually draping across the back of Hermione's chair. He didn't touch her, but Hermione felt the heat of his arm and knew it for the (not at all) subtle gesture of possessiveness that it was. It might have made her irritated if he had made a big show of it, but instead it made her feel quite warm, and she leaned back into his touch, readily absorbing the shiver that came when his fingers trailed lightly across her shoulder. She gave him the tiniest of smiles and thought she saw his eyes soften in answer before he schooled his expression back to stern.

Then he turned to address the others at the table. "None of you were here when we came in," Draco stated, almost accusatorily. The implication that they were unwelcome was completely ignored by the Hufflepuffs.

"Just came in, mate!" Ernie said, cheerily, as if it was the greatest good fortune to have found them.

Susan put her hand up to hide her grin, but when her eyes met Hannah's, she snorted and then quickly took a sip from one of the water glasses that had just been served to their table.

"Well, you can go right back out again," was Draco's surly reply.

"Malfoy," Ernie protested. "You would toss us out without even a drink? Susan and I just got off-duty and spent the whole day in the misty rain because Potter told us no water-repelling charms. We need something to warm us up!"

Draco sneered at them. "That's what Warming Charms are for."

Ernie looked at Susan in surprise. "A Warming Charm? Why didn't we think of that?"

Susan gave him a wry grin. "Yes, why didn't we think of a Warming Charm to get warm, I wonder?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh, that's right, that's what I used."

The pained look on Ernie's face made the rest of the group laugh. "I can't believe you didn't tell me— _me_ , your loyal partner. I bet Potter makes sure Malfoy has a Warming Charm, even though Malfoy would probably bite his head off for suggesting he doesn't have ice running through his veins."

Draco scowled. "This is why you weren't invited, MacMillan. You can't keep a decent tongue in your head."

Ernie frowned in mock hurt.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Hannah chimed in. "It's a public place after all, and if you didn't want company, you wouldn't be at The Den. You practically invited him just by sitting here, after all."

Ernie nodded in agreement. Then he gestured at Hermione with a warm smile, "Draco, always the showoff, is just trying to show how he's snagged the prettiest girl in the Ministry!"

Susan elbowed him in the side, her rolling eyes giving a clear opinion of his flattery.

"Ouch! Okay," he corrected himself, rubbing a hand over his fake injured rib, "the _smartest_ girl in the Ministry, is that better?"

"No, MacMillan!" Susan playfully protested. "You're shite at giving compliments, just stop now."

Hermione laughed again, enjoying the good-natured joking among the friends. "Thank you, anyway, Ernie. It's not every day someone calls you the prettiest girl _and_ the smartest girl, anywhere."

Ernie looked over at Draco, who was still glaring daggers at him. Then he shook his head in mock disappointment. "Not every day? You are clearly with the wrong man. If I might make a suggesti—"

Abruptly, his words were cut off with a yelp as a foot (that was no doubt boot-clad) connected rather mercilessly with his shin. "Bloody hell mate! It's been a long day! You can't hold off with the physical abuse?"

"Maybe if you stopped talking, MacMillan, I wouldn't have to keep hurting you," Draco said, through gritted teeth.

In an effort to distract the boys from getting further into an argument (but really to protect poor Ernie), Hermione tried to change the subject and Hannah went to go order some food for the group. "So what was it that had you and Susan out in the rain all day with no water-repelling charms?"

The mood suddenly sobered up a little bit as Ernie and Draco exchanged glances. When Ernie looked at Susan for help, she simply shrugged.

"We were on a stakeout. Top secret, confidential, and all that."

Turning to look at Draco, Hermione asked, "Is it the same thing you've been working on all week?"

Draco didn't answer, but his silence and the serious look on his face provided the affirmative.

When no one else in the group was forthcoming with more information, Hermione said casually, "We've had some interesting cases to work with lately, as well. It's not common knowledge, but it's not exactly secret, so I can share it with you. We had a rescued Lethifold recently that had to get sent back to Papua New Guinea. It wasn't clear how it ended up here, though we've got some leads we're running down. But it was quite the difficulty keeping it subdued and locked up, as the only thing that works on Lethifolds is the Patronus charm."

The Hufflepuffs made brief noises of interest and agreement. Draco, however, suddenly looked at her very sharply. "A Lethifold?" His brow was furrowed in thought, and Hermione could tell he was thinking of something specific.

"Nasty thing," she said. "Some thought we should just kill it outright, but for whatever reason the Tribal Council of Magic insisted we return it to them. I'm glad I had very little to do with the situation, other than quite a bit of research into methods for handling."

"Why do Patronuses work on Lethifolds?" Draco asked. "I thought they were only for Dementors."

Hermione thought for a moment, trying to rifle through her memories. The little information she'd found about the strange tropical beasts discussed more of their carnivorous appetites and the danger of its victims being caught unawares, rather than the mechanics of their magic. "I'd assume it has something to do with the nature of what they feed on. Like Dementors, they feed on despair and negativity, quite literally sucking the life-force out of someone before digesting the husk. Lethifolds are much less humanlike and cannot negotiate for their food, so they just stalk their prey and hunt whatever is closest. Dementors are repelled by the magic of one very powerful happy memory. It stands to reason that if the Patronus will repel the Dementors by fighting their darkness with light, that the Lethifolds can be fought a similar way. That is, if they don't catch their victims sleeping and suffocate them first." She paused and then added, "And then eat them."

Ernie shivered. "I hope we don't have to deal with any more of those. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have nightmares of death by Lethifold."

Draco didn't acknowledge Ernie's remark, but it was clear he agreed with the sentiment. Lethifolds and Dementors were truly scary creatures. When he spoke, though, it was very quietly, so low she could barely hear him. The other Auror had to lean in to catch his words, and the sense of urgency behind them caused Hermione's own instincts to twinge in warning. "Is there a way someone could mimic a Dementor or a Lethifold?"

"What do you mean?"

"A spell, perhaps, or a curse," Draco explained. "Something that would suck out the goodness or the happiness, or the wizard's very soul, in a way that Dementors and Lethifolds do. Would that be possible?"

His tone of voice sent a slight chill down her spine. "It's possible." She raised one hand to forestall any comments, as she wasn't entirely sure. " But I don't know why anyone would want to. Dementors and Lethifolds get energy and sustenance from their...activities. A wizard wouldn't have any gain, or any way to use what was sucked out, other than as a weapon to incapacitate someone, and surely there are better spells for that."

There was quiet at the table as they all contemplated the horror of someone mimicking the soul-sucking capabilities of Dementors and willfully performing the Kiss on whoever they wanted.

"There'd be no purpose," Hermione whispered. "Easier to Avada someone when they aren't looking if all you wanted to do was kill them."

Draco knocked back the rest of his drink, and put it empty on the table. Then he said, "Do me a favor, Granger, don't talk about this with anyone else." He looked over at Ernie who was still following their quiet conversation very closely, a thoughtful look on his face, even though Hannah and Susan were engaged in their own conversation. "And you, MacMillan," Draco began, warningly, not bothering to finish his threat.

Ernie just nodded, for once not being difficult. He looked questioningly over at Susan, his partner.

Draco shook his head and said, "Later." Hermione understood that the subject was closed, but she made a note to herself to ask him about it much later. Perhaps there was more insight she could give into whatever problem he was working through.

Looking around at their solemn faces, Ernie changed gears and clapped his hands loudly, to get the attention of the other two women. His expression was suddenly mischievous. "Say, Draco, I think it's your turn to buy us all a round, yeah?"

* * *

A/N: Well this was quick! Comparatively! I do hope to get chapters out a bit quicker, as I really want to end this story this summer. I've got a fantastic beta working with me and cheering me on, as well as a whole team of amazing authors that give fantastic support. The next two chapters are already well on their way to being finished and ready, so I'm hoping to post one if not both later this month as well. (Well, let's say one, so nobody get's their hopes up.)

The next chapter is the rest of this date, and now that we've got the serious stuff out of the way, we can have a bit of fun. Yes...that's exactly what I mean. ;-)

Also, be sure to check out my latest one-shot Draft of Living Death, which was just posted after winning a one-shot competition. I'm very proud of it, as it's very angsty and unlike me. Read if you're looking to ugly-cry all day, LOL.


	25. Chapter 25

_Please see important Author Note at the end._

* * *

Chapter 25

When Draco got up from the table, Ernie took a quick glance at his retreating back and then occupied his vacated chair in a move surprisingly Slytherin. Leaning over, he asked, "So how did the soup come out?"

It took Hermione a moment to piece together what he was talking about. "Oh! You're the friend that gave Draco that recipe? It was quite good!"

Ernie's jaw dropped open, and he appeared gobsmacked. Hermione blinked into the sudden silence around the table, unsure about what she had said to cause that reaction.

"He said that?" he asked, incredulously.

Confused, Hermione looked around the table to see Susan laughing into her water glass again. "He just said that he was trying a new recipe from a friend." When she got no further reaction from Ernie, she added, "That was all he said." She fought the urge to apologize, not knowing what she'd be apologizing for, but Ernie's intense reaction seemed to require acknowledgement.

For a moment, she almost thought she saw a thin sheet of tears welling up in his eyes before he blinked them away.

"He—he said I was his _friend_?"

Before she could respond to Ernie, Draco returned and Ernie stood to let him back into his chair. The beaming smile on his face had Draco's eyes narrowing and looking back and forth between him and Hermione.

Ernie clapped him on the back in a friendly, enthusiastic manner. (Did Ernie do anything that wasn't friendly and enthusiastic?) "Draco, Draco, my good friend!" He beamed at him, and then at the group, his arm resting across Draco's shoulders. "Drake, my best mate!"

The look on Draco's face would have frightened a lesser man's heart into stopping. "Remove your hand, or I will break it, MacMillan."

"Haha," Ernie laughed, as he quickly backed away and sat in his own seat. "Always joking!"

Hermione tried not to smile, but Ernie's gleeful face was too much to resist. He was still beaming at Draco.

Draco looked at Hermione and said loudly, "What the hell just happened, Granger?"

She blinked and then replied airily, "Nothing, just chatting with your friends." There was an excited squeak from Ernie's direction at her use of the word 'friends' again, but when Draco's head swiveled to see what it was, Ernie was carefully looking at something across the room.

"They're not my friends, Granger," he said, grumpily. "They're just a bunch of twats who decided they had nowhere better to sit."

Hannah sighed heavily, in what Hermione was 98-percent certain was an exaggerated dramatic fashion, based on the slight twinkle in her eye. "Of course, a Malfoy would never be friends with a bunch of Hufflepuffs. I'm pretty sure it's in the Malfoy rulebook. #17 or something like that."

"Ah-ha!" Hermione crowed, looking back at him. "I knew there must be a rulebook!"

Draco just rolled his eyes, and ate some of the chips in front of him. "And I told you: Malfoys don't need rules to state the obvious."

"More like you don't want your precious rules committed to a potentially compromising document!" Susan pointed out.

"There's no rulebook, Bones." He waited a moment while he ate another chip, and then added, "And if there was, I wouldn't tell you, anyway."

The three Hufflepuffs laughed as if Draco had just told a joke. "Yup, good mood he's in today," Susan confirmed.

Ernie leaned forward onto the table, his elbow perched precariously next to his drink. "So what you're saying Drake, is that it's an _unwritten_ rule that Malfoys don't have dealings with Hufflepuffs?"

Still smiling from the previous interaction, Hermione expected Draco to snipe some more, particularly at the irritating nickname, and perhaps even insulting Helga Hufflepuff herself. She looked eagerly at him, waiting for his next witty remark. But Draco just glared stonily at Ernie, who smiled far too innocently at him to be a man setting himself up for an insult.

When he still didn't say anything and just continued glaring at Ernie, who started whistling what sounded like Beedle Deedle the Beaded Beadle Bardle (a common wizarding children's song), Hermione chimed in, "I admit, I never thought I'd see the day Draco Malfoy would be sitting at a table having drinks with three Hufflepuffs."

She must have mistook the mood. What seemed like a casual teasing of the common Slytherin trait of avoiding Hufflepuffs (although, let's face it, everyone likes to pretend they are too cool for Hufflepuffs) clearly meant something more. Hermione glanced back and forth between Draco and the others, who were silently watching him. She didn't seem to understand what they were waiting for.

When Draco finally spoke, it was to Hermione and with the slightest edge of defensiveness. "Granger, my cousin was a Hufflepuff."

Slightly bewildered by that comment, Hermione was just repeating, "You're co—?" when she got cut off by the other three shouting, "Huff! Huff! Huff!"

As they shouted, they lifted their glasses and clinked them together.

From around the room in isolated pockets came an echoing, "Huff! Huff! Huff!" along with the light tinkling sounds of several glasses being tapped together in answer.

Hermione blinked in surprise, looking over at Draco who had a slightly pained look on his face.

"It's the sound a badger makes," he explained to her, motioning his fingers at the others who were sipping from their glasses.

"Oh?" Ernie asked, gleefully, a shit-eating grin on his face. "What sound is that, Drake?" He held his glass up to Draco, as if waiting.

"I'm not going to say it MacMillan, so shut your gob."

Ernie just wagged his half full glass in the air, still waiting. "C'mon, Draco! Just one. You can do it."

"I'm not a Hufflepuff, you arse."

Susan and Hannah both snorted at that, enjoying what was clearly not the first time this conversation was happening.

"One little huff. You're practically an honorary Hufflepuff, anyway."

Draco's glare was immediate, giving Hermione cause for concern for the life of the young man. She wondered briefly what the pub's policy was for when an Auror kills a patron in a one-sided duel.

To her surprise, Draco didn't say anything, his face stern, his eyes locking instead onto his own drink.

When Draco still refused to look at him, Ernie got a sly look on his face, still holding up his glass. "For Tonks, Draco," he wheedled, just loud enough for their table to hear.

There was a moment tense with expectation where Hermione felt like she should hold her breath.

Suddenly Draco's glass came up to hit Ernie's with a quick clink, spilling some of his untouched beverage. "Huff, you fuckin' badger," he muttered through gritted teeth.

The table, Hermione included, roared with laughter.

"Huff! Huff! Huff!" they shouted, and the room echoed with more badgers in response. Hermione couldn't help laughing again. She tried not to, she really did. But the look of long-suffering on Draco's face amidst all the raised glasses was too hilarious for her to resist. And if she didn't laugh, she rather thought she would start crying at the way her friend, Nymphadora Tonks—Hufflepuff, war-heroine—was still remembered, even by Draco Malfoy, who Hermione was just realizing was Tonks' cousin on her mother's side.

She looked around The Den—the _badger's_ den—and realized Draco had reluctantly and probably unconsciously gravitated toward a place that was a reminder of the one family member he actually felt proud to be associated with.

She really did tear up at that, surreptitiously swiping away the wetness from her eyes before Draco could see it and feel even more uncomfortable than he already was.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by Hannah, though, who gave her a kind smile. And in that moment Hermione knew that the whole conversation had been staged for her benefit. For some reason the three Hufflepuffs thought she needed this tiny insight into Draco Malfoy, and though clearly at the expense of Draco's comfort and pride, they'd manipulated it so she'd see this strangely emotional side of the man widely considered to be the most unfeeling jackass to ever wear the badge.

She smiled over at him as he glared down at his glass and she wondered if he knew that his cousin had been known for being a cranky Auror as well, easy to irritate and difficult to work with. As the others began a new conversation about the upcoming Harpies match, Hermione casually placed her hand over Draco's where it was still wrapped around his glass.

It was only a moment before he turned his palm up to clasp her hand, and she squeezed it, meeting his eyes briefly. She tried to keep all of the amusement out of her expression, but it wasn't as hard as she'd thought it would be, when she saw the same look in his eyes that she'd seen when he'd apologized for that night in Malfoy Manor.

She smiled again, a sappy thing she knew the others were politely ignoring, and she brought his hand into her lap where she could hold it in both of hers.

She forgot that her short skirt meant that the back of his hand rubbed against the bare skin of her leg, causing her to shiver in surprise. Her eyes quickly met his again, not at all surprised to see that he'd quickly been distracted from his pique and was instead no doubt thinking a variety of impure thoughts about her legs. She was suddenly very aware that if she let go of his hand it was not going back to his glass on the table.

She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and crossed her legs, trying to tune back into what Susan was saying about the Harpies' substitute Keeper, and forget how warm his hand felt—and how warm it then made _her_ feel.

A loud thrumming interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up to see a small area had been cleared in a corner of the pub, like a makeshift stage. A wizard in brightly colored robes was testing out an instrument.

"Oh, I love this group!" Hannah exclaimed.

Before Hermione realized what was happening, the Hufflepuffs had slid their chairs around so that they could all cram on one side of their table and get a good view of the band that was apparently about to perform. Draco and Hermione were caught in the middle, with the women on the other side of her, and Ernie obliviously ignoring Draco's growl as he settled himself on Draco's other side.

The rest of the small pub was likewise rearranging themselves so that everyone could get a good view. It was a good thing Hufflepuffs were so friendly as everyone was sitting just a little closer than normal.

Draco leaned down to whisper in Hermione's ear, moving a lock of hair as he did so. "We don't have to stay if you don't want to." She felt tingles where his breath fluttered against her neck.

"N-no, it's okay," she said, suddenly full of nerves again. "I don't mind staying for a little while."

He made a little grimace, possibly directed at Ernie who was crowding him while he cheered the band's opening notes. But instead of grumbling (or knocking the man over, as Hermione expected he might), Draco leaned back in his seat, placing his arm around her again, and pulling her in close to his side.

She went easily, enjoying the solid feel of his warmth, even leaning her head on his shoulder, barely refraining from rubbing her face against his robes.

She was jostled suddenly from the side Susan was on, and heard several voices (three warmly enthusiastic and one much put-upon) cry out, "Justin!" She turned and recognized another one of her old classmates, Justin Finch-Fletchley, looking a bit damp since he'd just arrived out of the misty rain.

"Come sit with us," Hannah suggested, motioning to Susan and Hermione to scoot in. The girls scooted along the chairs like it was a bench. Hermione hadn't gotten a chance to look around with the sudden press of people, but it was entirely possible the chairs had indeed melded into a bench shape, much as the tables had merged together.

Hermione had just wedged her arm into Draco's side when he laughed and grinned at her. "Like this, Granger." His hands came down around her waist, sending a jolt of heat through her, but all he did was lift her up to settle her in his lap, her legs sprawling to either side. She was suddenly very aware of how short her skirt was, and was thankful that the tabletop was blocking the view from everyone else.

With more room, the others easily accommodated the new addition to their group.

Hermione could feel Draco's low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Hmm, yes, this is much better," he said.

Draco completely missed whatever opening song the band had started with. And most of the second song, too. Actually, he wasn't really paying attention to much else besides the witch in his arms.

He'd been distracted earlier, trying to grasp the errant thoughts running through his head regarding Patronuses, but the answers wouldn't come. He'd have to talk about it with Potter later and see if the Golden Boy had any ideas. Draco's intuition told him that he was onto something.

But he didn't feel like thinking about work right then. He'd been working extra shifts all week, and he was finally off for the weekend. Hermione was sitting in his lap, and despite the fact that a sea of Hufflepuffs surrounded him, he felt incredibly content.

He nuzzled a bit at her hair and she obligingly tilted her head to the side so he could settle his chin on her shoulder. "You smell good," he said against her neck, confident his words didn't carry too far through the noise of the music. He felt, rather than saw, the smile come to her face.

He surreptitiously touched his lips to the sensitive skin, smiling to himself when it pebbled with goosebumps. His tongue darted just a little bit to lick her under her ear and when she giggled he said, "You taste good, too."

Just then, Ernie bumped into Draco's side, having been jostled by the person on the other side of him. Draco's arms quickly came up around Hermione as he glared at the offenders.

"Sorry," Ernie apologized. He looked at the two of them cuddled up together and then opened his mouth to say something. At Draco's narrowed eyes, he changed his mind and quickly turned back to face the stage again, his face comically nonchalant.

"You don't have to be so mean to him," Hermione gently chastised.

"He interrupted me," Draco said, petulantly.

"We're just sitting here," she pointed out.

He settled his mouth against her neck again, giving it tiny nibbling kisses. "No, _you're_ just sitting here. _I'm_ preparing to do all kinds of unspeakable things to the witch in my lap while everyone else is distracted listening to this Salazar-forsaken band."

"This is classic Wizarding music, Malfoy." She conveniently ignored his other more suggestive comment, though the way she squirmed a bit in his lap told him that she'd definitely heard it. "Are you saying you actually prefer the Muggle versions?"

"What I prefer," he said, "is the way the Muggle club lets me hold you very, very close." His hands squeezed her hips a tiny bit before they started trailing down her legs in time with his next words. "And I very much prefer how the music lets me run my hands all over your body, with no one to protest."

He reached the hem of her dress, and he felt her breathing suddenly hitch. He grinned to himself. She was so much fun to rile up. The fabric beneath his fingers was very soft, and he decided that this was quite possibly his favorite dress. He missed the denim jeans, and their particularly enticing rear pockets, but this short thing barely came past her thighs when she was sitting. Perched in his lap the way she was, that meant the softness of her skin was just mere inches away.

He tugged on her skirt until it hiked up a tiny bit higher. His fingertips brushed across the tops of her bare legs, and he felt her shudder against him.

"Malfoy," she said lowly, in a warning he didn't bother heeding.

"Granger," he answered, the word muffled against her skin. He kissed her neck again, a wet, open-mouthed kiss and then traced a circle on the sensitive flesh with his tongue while his fingers stroked just under the hem of her skirt.

She seemed to melt backwards into him, and he thought he heard a soft sigh under the blare of the band. The skin under his fingertips grew unmistakably hotter, and whatever scent she was wearing grew thicker around him as her pulse hammered in her throat.

He liked knowing that he had this power over her. He could make her forget where she was, like she had yesterday at work when he'd kissed her and she'd practically climbed him trying to pull him closer. If the damn door hadn't been open, and Melinda hadn't been pretending to shuffle papers very loudly in warning, he very likely would have been much later for the briefing that was making him miss lunch. It had taken a supreme amount of self-control to refrain from flicking his wand and both shutting the door and clearing off her desk (along with her clothes) at the same time.

Remembering the hazy look in her eyes when he'd pulled back, and the way her hair looked tousled from his hands and her lips swollen from his kiss, made his heart thump faster while he imagined that same look on her face when he tossed this dress of hers on to his bedroom floor.

He slid his hand more firmly up her thigh, grateful for the way the tabletop hid his actions. His palm seemed to glide against her skin until his fingers were very close to the center of her heat. Quickly, her hand came down on top of where his was under her skirt, stopping his movement, but he could hear the way she was breathing hard and the hold she had on him was very loose.

He changed the focus of his attention and continued to kiss her neck, trailing down over her shoulder, scraping his teeth lightly over her skin. With his free arm, he pulled at her waist, angling her tighter to him. He bit at her neck, groaning at how good her body felt so warm and pliant in his arms.

Suddenly quivering, her restraining hand fell away, so he took that as permission to slide his hand farther up her thigh until his fingers came right up against cloth. She jolted at the feel of him, and he held her tight, chuckling.

"What color are these, I wonder?" he whispered in her ear, lightly running his forefinger across the center, enjoying the way her legs seemed to want to close around his hand. "Brown to match the dress? White?" He stroked her again, and she whimpered softly. "Aren't you going to tell me? Or will I just have to find out myself?"

"B-black," she stammered, arching backwards against him. He wasn't sure whether she was trying to get away from his hand or to move her body closer, but he didn't much care which it was, because the feel of her wriggling on his lap was sending jolts of pleasure throughout his entire body.

"Black knickers?" He made a tsking sound, his fingers still softly stroking. "Thought you were going to get lucky tonight, Granger?"

She turned her head slightly to look at him, her eyes almost gold in the dim lighting as they caught his and held. There was the slightest of a challenge in her look that sent a thrill down his spine before he heard her words. "Actually, I was counting on it, Malfoy."

He stared at her, trying to remind himself that he was in a public place, despite the fact that he had his hand up her dress. It was all he could do to refrain from lifting her onto the table and pounding into her to the beat of whatever song The Knotty Wands was playing now.

Before he could respond, everyone else had jumped up to their feet cheering, and the lights came up, prompting him to remove his hand, though his gaze never wavered from her face. It looked like the band was going to take a quick break before their next set.

"MacMillan," Draco said, his voice sharp, though he was still looking at Hermione. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ernie's attention drift over to them.

"What?" Ernie asked.

"We're leaving," Draco told him. "You're in the way."

"Merlin," the other Auror complained. "You can't ask nicely, every now and again, just for a change of pace? You'd think—" His voice cut off as he finally caught on to the tension emanating from the couple beside him. "Right-o," he said, quickly scooting out from behind the table to let them out, as if afraid he'd get hexed if he didn't move fast enough. The mood Draco was in, he was probably right.

Draco nudged Hermione off of his lap and noted with satisfaction that her legs wobbled as she stepped aside. Once he was on his feet, he grabbed her hand and hauled her behind him as he made a path through the enthusiastic Hufflepuffs towards the door. He didn't even bother saying goodbye to Hannah and Susan, though he usually made an attempt at civility for their sake.

Hermione's steps were rapid to keep up with his longer strides. Once they were outside in the damp night air he stopped abruptly and turned around, causing her to crash into him.

"Oh! Draco, wha—"

Before she could recover, he'd wrapped his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss, the way he'd wanted to kiss her for the last six songs. She tasted like the wine, and like something else sweet and tangy that was just exquisitely her, and he couldn't ever seem to get enough of it. He angled her head backwards, dominating her lips, his tongue thrusting into her mouth to clash with hers.

He finally broke it off and saw that same hazy look on her face that he'd been fantasizing about all day. But everything inside of him was so tied up and twisted into knots, he couldn't even smile about it. She gasped for breath in his arms, but he didn't let her pull away. He needed her to be closer, as close as possible; the need was stretching his nerves so tight, he thought he might snap.

It had been all fun and games inside the pub, when he was nearly content to tease her and to enjoy the feel of her body. However, now that need was a sharp ache inside of him, and he'd waited so long for her, he didn't think he could wait even one moment longer.

"Tell me you're coming home with me, Hermione," he rasped, the words in his hoarse voice not quite an order.

It turned out he _could_ wait at least one more moment, as his words took at least that long to filter through her blissful haze. He watched her blink to clear her head, wondering at how just that tiny movement could somehow make him even more aroused.

"Oh, I—"

"Too late," he said, and he wrapped an arm around her, turning and Apparating them both away. One more moment had really been his limit.

~o0o~

They arrived with a _crack_ in his bedroom.

Hermione had just enough time to marvel at the fact that he hadn't Splinched them both before his mouth was on hers again.

Oh, how this man could kiss! When his lips touched hers she was instantly filled with heat and electricity and sparkling lights. When his hands slid over her body, they left trails of fire over her skin.

Hermione was a thinker. She prided herself on her ability to think. But there was something so lovely and freeing about having all of her thoughts—along with her fears and her doubts—just washed away in the wonder of his kiss.

His mouth moved over hers firmly. A sense of urgency pulsed from him and through her body, her heart slamming inside of her chest.

For a moment he just kissed her, his arms linked around her waist crushing her against him. His mouth moved down the same side of her neck he'd been teasing all night.

She closed her eyes against the sensation and sighed.

"Merlin, I missed you," he groaned against her skin, before his mouth devoured hers again, his teeth nipping at her lips. "Why the hell didn't we come here first and skip the pub?" His hands were in her hair, leaning her backwards so he could nibble down her jaw and her neck.

She laughed breathily. "You wanted me to meet your friends, I think."

He growled a little, as he tongued the hollow at her throat, playing with the neckline of her dress. "Not my friends, Granger."

"Aren't they, though?" she asked, giggling when he nipped at her and didn't answer. Her giggle quickly turned to another sigh, and then a moan when his hands curved over her backside. He brought her up close to him where she could feel him against her belly.

Her hands instinctively curved around his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles through the fabric of his robes.

"You never answered me," he said, abruptly, pulling back to look at her. The low timbre of his voice sent flutters through her stomach. "Are you staying?"

His eyes were a molten grey, stormy and dark with desire.

Looking into them, she knew it was already much too late for her to leave.

She needed to be seared by that heat.

She needed what the kisses and the touches and the suggestive words all promised.

She wanted to know what it felt like to be taken by a man who truly wanted her. Just the thought of it made her shudder with a foreign hunger.

She launched herself at him, her mouth attacking his in a bruising kiss. She wanted to make him feel what she felt, to convey what she desperately wanted but couldn't form the words to say.

So she threw it all into that kiss.

As her teeth tugged on his lip, her hands fluttered at his robes, pushing them off his shoulders.

Desperate to be free of the encumbering fabric, he shook it off and then held her tight again, moaning into her mouth.

For a moment, she had control, and reveled in the feel of him trembling against her. But then he ripped it away from her, his hands and mouth feverish as he tilted her until she felt herself falling backwards. The room seemed to spin and the strength in his arms as he lowered her to the bed only turned her on even more.

The mattress and the luxurious bedding were very soft. But the man above her was firm and hard, and the feel of his weight pressing into her was divine. With quick tugs, he yanked off her new boots and she thanked him by immediately wrapping her legs around him.

They both groaned at the sudden feel of their bodies aligning so closely. She wanted desperately to be skin to skin already. She tried to remember a wandless spell for removing clothes, but his hands sliding up her bare legs were making it impossible to concentrate.

His long fingers then dragged her against him, delving for the flesh underneath the fabric. When his fingers reached the lacy edges that outlined her hips, he suddenly remembered something. "Black knickers. I want to see them," he muttered.

Feverishly, he worked at the buttons of her dress, impatient to see what he'd spent so long dreaming of. His mouth came down to kiss the skin that was suddenly bared to him.

Hermione arched against his mouth but he just kept moving, following his fingers and licking his way down the expanse of her stomach. Each swipe of his tongue had her quivering.

When he finally had the last button undone, the dress fell away to either side of her. He paused to stare at her open before him. His gaze traveled up from her legs, still wrapped around his waist, past her slinky black knickers to the matching satin bra.

For a brief moment, Hermione felt self-conscious, hearing again harsh words ringing in her ears. She tried to resist the impulse to cover herself up. "I'm sorry I'm not really—" she began, even though she told herself not to say anything.

Draco cut her off with hushed tones. "You're so beautiful."

"What?" she said, taken aback. His words made her blush. She knew she wasn't, not really, but the look in his eyes as his gaze devoured her made her believe it might be true.

He ran his fingertips reverently down her body, smoothing past her curves and the slight flare of her hips. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined, and I have a very good, very thorough, very _creative_ imagination."

She had a quick glimpse of torrid images as they flickered through her mind.

The tension of waiting coiled tightly inside of her. She was desperate for his touch, knowing it would melt away all of the suffocating insecurities that arose as he looked at her.

As if he could read her mind, he smirked and then crawled over her, finally lowering his mouth again. He trailed soft kisses down to that black bra and she exhaled shakily. She barely even noticed when he pulled the straps down, too busy thinking about the searing heat of his lips, the clever flicks of his tongue.

Her hands came up at the sharp jolt that went through her, holding his head to her. Gasping, she arched into him, her legs pulling him closer.

His hands smoothly pulled her into him as he rocked against her.

The feel of his firm fingers reminded her of the way he had been teasing her earlier that night. She imagined his fingers doing all sorts of naughty things to her and she shook with the force of her pent up need.

Her hands scrabbled impatiently at his clothing, trying to tug his shirt upward so that she could feel his skin against hers.

She heard him chuckling at her actions.

The chuckling quickly turned to a painful groan as she finally got his shirt off just as the sound of the Floo chiming interrupted them.

"Harry," he growled, stilling his movements.

"I'm going to kill him," Hermione gasped.

Draco didn't budge. With one hand he kept a firm grasp on her, and with his other he called his wand to him. After performing a rushed silencing charm that blocked out the intrusive chiming, he carelessly let his wand fall back onto the floor.

"It's not urgent," he explained blithely, his free arm wrapping around her once more. "This, on the other hand is _quite_ urgent. And I will _not_ be interrupted by bloody Potter."

With those words, he renewed his attack on her body. His mouth was fierce and thorough, kissing and licking every inch of her.

Hermione's skin felt heated and so sensitized everywhere that she thought she might be glowing. Where his mouth wasn't, his hands were, tracing the shape of her, molding her body to him, stoking the flames of her arousal until she felt she couldn't be burning any hotter.

Her own hands were moving feverishly around his body. She loved the feel of his hard, Auror-trained muscles rippling under her fingertips and the way his skin heated up when her fingers clamped onto his back.

She wanted more, each garment between them too much. Her hands fussed with his trousers and he kicked them off for her.

His hands tore away her undergarments, leaving them both naked.

She didn't have more than a moment to enjoy the sight of his body before the heat of him had her closing her eyes and moaning with anticipation.

She trembled with the need she had to feel him against her.

"Easy there, Granger," he murmured.

At his touch, her eyes rolled back in her head. Merlin, he felt so good. She wanted him so bad.

He groaned as they slowly joined together.

"Draco," she whimpered, needing more, so much more, her body shaking.

His face was strained, taking a moment to savor the feeling of her body before he started to move.

The pleasure of it caused them both to cry out. It was brilliant.

He loved it. The feel of her, the smell, the taste, the knowledge that he was the one making her scream and shudder and shake. He couldn't get enough.

She was his, and he wanted her to feel it through every inch of her body. He wanted her to be branded with his heat.

His mouth came back to hers, devouring each of her tiny cries, his tongue and teeth scraping at her jaw. His body moved harder and faster.

Her cries were just gasps and groans, her hands clutching blindly at him in her pleasure, her body coiling tighter and tighter with tension.

A smile crossed his lips as he felt her trembling closer to that edge, and he transferred his attention to her neck, conveniently exposed as her head fell backwards. Her hands squeezed at his shoulder with every hard suck on her skin timed perfectly with his movements.

When she could take no more and the pleasure finally exploded inside of her, she screamed his name.

The sound of it echoing off the walls had him shuddering his own release.

He collapsed on top of her with a grunt. For several moments the two of them just breathed heavily.

"Merlin," she finally whispered, almost a prayer, her limbs falling laxly to the side.

He grinned at her openly. He had Hermione Granger naked in his bed, warm and pliant under him, all loose-limbed after incredible sex. He enjoyed the sight of her damp hair spread out on his pillows and the blissful well-pleasured expression on her face.

One of her hands came up to toy with a lock of his sweaty hair.

He felt a thrill all the way to the base of his spine at the way she casually touched him.

"You're _really_ good at that," she murmured, sleepily, as he began to kiss the damp curve of her shoulder. He couldn't seem to resist whatever was within distance of his mouth and he decided it was no use trying.

"Mmmm," she hummed as his tongue flicked out to lick at her skin. She arched a little, dragging her hands down his back, feathering over the hard muscles of his shoulders. Her actions sent little sparks through him, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before he'd be ready to take her again.

"You make me feel so good," she breathed, as if surprised at herself. "You always do, but this was," she paused, eyes closed, "incredible." She made that contented humming sound again. "I think that might have been the best sex I've ever had."

Draco felt it was the better part of valor to refrain from gloating. Better to simply repeat and show her again and again until she was no longer unsure.

"I think I might love you," she mumbled, surprising them both.

Her eyes suddenly flew open as her words lingered in the air. It was clear she hadn't meant to say the words, possibly hadn't even been aware that she was thinking them.

Something powerful and shimmery moved through him, something even stronger than before when she'd come apart in his arms. It made him want to shout with joy and pride and triumph. She was _his_. The emotions that he'd kept locked down for so long, that he'd only recently begun unwrapping, suddenly surged into him, overwhelming him with their strength and with the undeniable reality of his feelings-feelings she obviously still wasn't ready for.

With considerable effort, he swallowed them back and looked down at her panicked expression. Gently, he leaned over and placed a kiss on her jaw.

He settled his body comfortingly beside hers, one hand wrapping around her waist and cradling her against him. He trailed soft kisses back up towards her ear until he felt her body start to relax again. Then he whispered, "It's okay. You can tell me when you're sure."

Then his mouth found hers again, coaxing it open, and he set about ensuring she forgot any fear or embarrassment from speaking too soon.

~-o0o-~

It was some time later, in the room that was now in total darkness, when an amused voice teased with husky tones, "I seem to remember someone said it would be amazing."

"It _was_ , I heard you say it yourself." The other voice in the darkness was slurred and a bit sleepy, as if the owner was speaking into a pillow.

"I don't recall using those exact words."

"No, they were more like, 'Yes, yes!' and 'More!'" There came a light thumping sound, as if something cloth-covered was hitting bare flesh.

"I also recall someone saying that we'd do it again."

The answering voice held a new note of interest. "I seem to recall that we _did_ do it again. Although, if you need me to refresh your memory, that could be arranged."

"If you're not too tired…" The words lingered, a challenge in the air.

"You're the one who fell asleep after that last time."

There was a scuffling sound as of bodies shifting, and a giggling protest. "I was just giving you a chance to rest!"

"Well, let me show you how much I appreciate your consideration."

There were no more words for quite a while, though there were a variety of very active sounds that punctuated the darkness.

Then finally the flurry of movements stilled, and one voice whispered, "Amazing."

And the other one said, "I told you."

~-o0o-~

Ginny had Baby Jamie on her hip, when she walked into the living room to see her husband staring intensely at the fireplace. "What happened?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing."

It was obvious that Harry was lying, and with a questioning look on her face, Ginny waited patiently for him to explain. He did, of course.

"It's just…I tried ringing Malfoy earlier, and he didn't answer." He continued looking at the Floo with concern.

Ginny thought about his answer and then pointed out, "Well, he doesn't answer you every time, does he?"

Harry nodded emphatically. "Actually, yes. Every time. If he's home, which I know he is, because Floo calls don't go through at all when he's not home." The scowl that crossed his face was almost petulant. "He's just not answering."

They both contemplated this for a moment, while Ginny adjusted her hold on the baby. Since Harry was still staring a hole into the Floo, Ginny finally said, "You don't think—?"

Quickly, Harry cut her off and grimaced. "I'm trying not to. I'm sure there must be _another_ reason."

For some reason this struck Ginny as hilarious. Her husband wasn't worried that Draco was missing, hurt, or anything of the sort. He was concerned that he was _up_ to something. She grinned, even though Harry wasn't looking at her. "Or maybe it's the same reason twice."

"Ginny!" Harry protested, covering his ears, like it would somehow wipe the sudden images out of his mind. "That's my best friend!"

She cackled with glee. Too easy. "Aw, that's sweet. Draco will be so pleased to hear you call him that."

"You know who I mean!" Harry put his head in his hands. "I can't even say her name in this situation."

"And what situation is that?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Her—and him—and the not answering the Floo—" He couldn't take it, he shuddered and it was clear he was trying really hard not to think about it.

Baby Jamie chose just that moment to laugh uproariously. Charmed, Ginny laughed along with him, while Harry just glowered with a put-upon face.

"I suppose it's my fault. I told him to introduce her to his friends," Harry lamented.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

"You know how gooey she gets about friends."

"So enamored of a man with a friend, she just falls right into bed with him?"

At Harry's disgusted face, and protest of, "Ginny!" she just laughed harder.

"Not that it's any of your business, " she said, with a somewhat lofty air, "but I think—I really do—that they will both be _fine_."

Harry didn't answer, he just continued staring moodily at the fireplace.

Another silent moment passed and then something occurred to her, "So what did you need Malfoy for, anyway?"

Her husband avoided her eyes, and shrugged much too casually. "I can't remember."

After waiting a beat, Ginny broke out into peals of laughter that caused spots of red to appear high on Harry's cheeks, and set Baby Jamie to giggling again. "Harry James Potter, you deserve whatever you get! It's your own fault for trying to check up on them."

"Merlin, Gin! A little compassion?"

"No, they are both adults— _consenting_ adults" she stressed, ignoring Harry's glare, "and it's better if you just don't think about it." She picked up the baby and set him into Harry's arms, a surefire way to pick up his mood.

Sure enough, Harry's ire melted in the face of chubby cheeks and a mouthful of drool. He jiggled his son a little, delighting in the way Jamie's eyes squinted in the light. So quickly distracted was he, that he almost missed Ginny's last suggestion.

"You can always ask him about it tomorrow."

He just gaped at her, and angrily turned Jamie away so he was facing the wall, as if the baby ought to be equally offended by his mother's ludicrous idea. "I am _not_ talking to Malfoy about his sex life!"

"A-ha! So you admit it's probably sex."

He glared at her even more fiercely while patting the baby's back. "You are vile."

"And I'm going to ask Hermione all about it tomorrow!" she sing-songed, as she skipped off to the kitchen to prepare a late-night snack.

Once she was gone, Harry looked back at his son. "I want you to cover your ears tomorrow." Baby Jamie's head jerked forward in a semblance of a nod, and Harry grimly nodded back at him.

* * *

A/N: _Hello, dear readers! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as I know it's one that many of you have been waiting on for a long time. If you've been with me since I started this story 2 years ago, you know it's been a long road to finally get them in bed. I had this chapter nearly finished many weeks ago, but I'm afraid I had to edit it about a million times, wondering if this chapter was going to be good enough for the story. Then just when I was ready to post it, Hawthorn & Vine temporarily went down. Many of you may know that H&V is my favorite website for my stories. In this case it was particularly important the chapter post on H&V first, before I posted it on FFN._

 _The reason is that FFN does not allow explicit (MA-rated) material to be posted onto their site. The above version of this chapter that you read is the M-rated version, edited for FFN. The full MA-rated version was supposed to be available exclusively on H &V. But it's been over a week and I've heard that it may be a couple more weeks before H&V gets back up, and I didn't want to make you all wait any longer._

 _I am cross-posting to A03, and eventually the full Explicit version of this story will be there, but not for several more weeks. (And like H &V, my A03 stories rated Explicit are ONLY available to registered users. So guests cannot access my explicit stories, they need to be signed in.)_

 _In the meantime, until H &V goes up, I am making a SPECIAL arrangement for this chapter only. I have a new Author page on Facebook, under Maloreiy Webster. "Like" my page to follow it for updates, and message me to let me know that you'd like the explicit version of Chapter 25, and I will send you a PDF copy via Facebook Messenger (it also has a lovely little aesthetic that I made for this chapter, part of the extra content you will see on my author's page). This is the best I can do for my loyal readers. But I would like to point out that the explicit version is only a tiny bit different from this version, with more graphic imagery and language. Some authors do an entire "fade to black" to remove the scene entirely and shut the door on them, but I edited it very carefully to take out the "explicit" parts while keeping all of the important feelings and emotions. It is not necessary to read the MA-rated version. This provision is just for those who really want to read it, and who don't want to wait for it to post on H&V. _

_I do apologize for the inconvenience, and I look forward to meeting some of you on my author page._

REVIEW PREFERENCE: ALL REVIEWS WELCOME, INCLUDING CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. ABUSE IS NEVER TOLERATED.


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: If you've been following my Author Page on Facebook, you know that I said I wasn't going to update each chapter as I finished it, but I was going to work on whole plot arcs that spanned several chapters. I'm still doing that. But I accidentally wrote this short interim chapter that really belongs to more of the plot from Chapter 25, so I just thought I'd include it here and not make you wait for the other 5 chapters that are in process. (If you're still waiting for Chapter 25 on H &V, it's posted there…but the site is down temporarily and it might be a while before it comes back up. You can still PM me on Facebook for the PDF of Chapter 25.)_

* * *

Chapter 26

It couldn't have been the sunlight slanting through the open window that woke her, because from the look of it, the sun was well into its daily trek across the sky. Hermione blinked sleepily into that bright morning light, a wonderful warmness engulfing her body.

She felt good. Surprisingly good.

Her body ached a bit, as if it had been well-used. She smiled to herself, thinking that was definitely the case, and felt a glow course through her body at the memories of the night before.

With a yawn, she started to stretch, only to jostle the warm body behind her, which groaned and sent one hand sliding lazily up her thigh.

She bit her lip, her body suddenly alert, and waited to see what else that hand would do. It squeezed her hip, just once, and then stilled. From behind her she could hear even breathing again. He'd fallen back asleep.

Instead of feeling disappointed that they weren't in for another bout of fantastic sex, she giggled quietly. She felt _really_ good.

It had been ages since she'd felt like this. Calm, peaceful, happy. Relieved.

She'd been afraid for nothing. Sleeping with Draco had been nothing at all like sleeping with Ron. Gone was the unsettled, shameful feeling that always lingered afterwards like a slick layer of oil on the surface of an otherwise clear lake. For the first time, sex didn't leave her feeling dirty, empty, guilty, _defective_.

Instead she felt…wonderful. Is this what it was like to feel comfortable in your skin, in _just_ your own skin? She held back another giggle at the unusually decadent thoughts that flitted through her mind, not wanting to wake Draco up again.

Slowly, she turned, repositioning herself so she could look at him.

The covers had settled around his waist, so she had a good view of what she'd only barely glimpsed the night before. He was…very _fit_. Her eyes wandered over his smooth skin, noting the muscles that even in sleep were firm. She wanted to touch, but refrained, enjoying instead the swirling of feelings inside her at seeing him like this.

His pale hair was a tousled mess, confirming her belief that even Draco Malfoy woke up with bedhead. With a gentle finger she moved the shock of hair that was covering his eyes, remembering again the tender way he'd looked at her the night before.

Those intense eyes made her feel all sorts of things, the way they looked at her, the way they seemed to look _into_ her. Part of her wished he would open them, so she could look into them again, see if everything looked the same in the morning.

Another part of her was pleased to see how peaceful his face looked in the gentle sunlight. He seemed younger. More like the boy she'd known, and less like the man who walked every day stooped with the burden of his mistakes weighing him down.

She knew that feeling. She'd seen those expressions too many times on the war veterans she worked with every day. Along with what she saw in the mirror.

But she'd never seen Draco without that hardness, that knowingness, in his eyes. She liked him this way.

She basked in the warmth of the morning and she wondered if he would feel the same thing she did today—if she gave him that same feeling of lightness and hope.

Her words from the night before came drifting into her mind, and an echo of anxiety caused her to sit up.

Still thinking not to disturb him, she looked around for something to put on, and grabbed Draco's black shirt from the floor.

Carefully, she tiptoed out of the room, not quite shutting the door behind her, and made her way into the living space.

The high vaulted ceilings and the large windows made the room airy and bright, and she smiled again as she saw the books lining the shelves, no longer hidden behind a charm.

Out of habit, she trailed her fingers along the spines. The familiar feel of covers beneath her fingertips was soothing, and for a moment she pushed the anxiety away, concentrating on the book titles as she passed them.

One familiar title stood out, and she pulled out the timeless tale of Miss Bennett and Mr Darcy, noting that it wasn't the one she'd given to Draco. Idly, she wondered where he kept that version, and why he hadn't mentioned that he already had a copy.

She carried it over to the couch, settling into a patch of light, letting the rays of morning sunshine remind her of that lovely feeling she'd woken up with. She opened the book to the first page, knowing she had no intention of reading it, but she always did her best thinking with a book in her lap.

After a few minutes of flipping through pages, skimming through text she almost knew by heart, she determined something.

She _still_ felt good.

Her limbs were loose, her heart was light. She felt terribly comfortable on someone else's couch, reading someone else's book, wearing someone else's shirt. Possibly because that 'someone else' was Draco.

Yes, she still felt good. She just also felt…a tad embarrassed.

She'd said some words that were much too early to be thought, let alone spoken aloud, in this fledgling relationship. She'd been surprised to hear them coming out of her mouth. And then horrified to think how trite it sounded, like a young girl who equates sex with being loved.

She knew better than most that the two didn't necessarily have anything to do with each other.

Draco had quickly distracted her from her embarrassment, and she'd let him, grateful he wasn't going to make a big deal out of the unintentional words. Grateful that he didn't push her away for being too forward. Grateful that he didn't turn it immediately into a commitment she might not be ready for.

But it did make her wonder.

She ought to be feeling much more anxiety right now. She'd revealed a very personal thought that could give Draco a lot of leverage over her. He could exploit her feelings, he could try to manipulate her. Ron would have. Ron did, several times.

She'd told herself she would be more careful, more wary of giving her heart away.

But … she was afraid it was too late. Whatever this was she was feeling—that she hesitated to name—was very strong. It rolled through her—powerful, magical—every time he looked at her, touched her, every time she thought of him.

Could it happen again so quickly?

And what could she even do to stop it, supposing she wanted to?

A loud thump jolted her out of her reverie. She heard scrabbling sounds coming from the bedroom, and then the door yanked open, and Draco came rushing out of it.

He looked like he'd dressed hurriedly; his shirt was half open, his hair still in his eyes.

He came to an abrupt halt when he saw her sitting on the couch.

Concerned, she sat up. "What happened? Did Harry call you away?"

For a moment he just stared at her, at the book she had just put aside, at her bare legs curled on the couch cushion.

"No," he said, slowly, carefully putting one hand into his pocket. "I thought—I thought you'd left."

She saw the uncertainty on his face, and for some reason that made the glowing feeling even stronger. For all he always appeared so confident, he was just as unsure as she was with this…whatever this was.

Taking in his unkempt appearance, she said, "Where were you going?"

He hesitated, his eyes on her face, before saying, "After you."

"Pardon?" she said, not sure she'd heard correctly.

"I was going after you," he clarified, his voice suddenly defiant, echoing off the walls.

She couldn't help the ridiculous smile that came to her face. He was going after her, even though he thought she'd left him alone in his bed without even a goodbye.

She laughed, delighted. "Looking like that? You were going to come woo me with one shoe on and one shoe off?"

He scowled at her as she laughed so hard she fell over onto the couch, but he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

She hadn't left after all. She was sitting on his couch with a damn book in her hand, instead of lying in his bed, and was that his shirt? And she was laughing her head off at him on top of it. But he couldn't even be mad.

She hadn't left.

For a panicked moment, Draco had thought he'd pushed her too fast after all, and that she regretted having the spent the night with him.

Waking up to the empty bed had sent a twinge of pain shooting straight through him. Rejection, self-loathing—a hundred other emotions he was all too familiar with. They'd never hurt like this had, though. To be so close to what he wanted, to have her scent still hanging in the air, the feel of her body still on the sheets—for a moment, he was devastated.

He'd sat in the bed, staring, wondering what he could possibly do next. If he'd thought seeing her at the Ministry had been difficult before, it would be near impossible now that he knew how she tasted, how she felt moving beneath him.

Her words came to mind, then. The way she'd lain in his arms and sleepily said she _might_ possibly love him. Just the memory of the words sent thrills up and down his spine all over again.

She must have freaked out and run away, he thought. She was just scared. She'd come out of a bad relationship, and she'd accidentally jumped them a few levels forward, so of course it was understandable.

That was when he'd darted out of bed, frantically thinking maybe he could catch up with her before she'd talked herself out of this…out of _them_.

And as he'd yanked on his shoes (or just one, apparently), he'd reflected on the fact that just the possibility that she _might_ love him, was something he was absolutely not willing to give up on. He'd waited silently for too long, hopelessly watching as she wasted her love on another. If this didn't work out between them, it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

But she hadn't left.

Instead she was rolling on his couch, tangling her already messy hair on the pillows in her mirth at his expense.

And he was insanely pleased to see her there.

He watched her a moment more, before he leaned down and took off his remaining (only?) shoe.

Her head popped up, looking at him curiously, her eyebrows rising when she caught the glint in his eye.

Before she could blink, he'd climbed over the table, and had her body pinned to the couch with his own, the easiest chase he'd ever had.

She didn't even try to resist. Her body was soft and pliant, warm and yielding, as he settled over her. She leaned her head back so he could easily capture her lips, and he felt warmth flood through his veins.

One hand came up to touch her face, stroking down her cheek as he pulled away to look at her. Her eyes were glassy and dazed from the kiss, but there was still a hint of humor and the touch of a smile on her face as she brought her hand up to his wrist.

He smiled down at her, noting the way the sun brought out the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Then he said, very seriously, "Don't run, Hermione."

Her eyes flickered on his. "I wasn't."

He kissed her again, reveling in the soft sighing sound she made. "I know," he said, quietly. "But you might want to. One day, another day, you might think to run. And if that happens, just…don't. Please. Don't run."

She leaned her head into his hand, her tone suddenly as serious as his. "I won't." Then she grinned at him, "You'll just come after me, anyway, right?"

The last of the tightness in his chest that had been there since he'd woken up finally dissipated at her words.

"Exactly right," he said as he bent his head to kiss her again, and his hands worked to take his shirt back.

* * *

 _A/N: Special Announcement._

 _My time has been taken up with a lot of extra projects. I'm sorry Draco's Bad Day has been put to the back burner. One of the extra projects is I launched a Dramione Review blog. You can find it at MalReviews (dot blogspot dot com). My plan is to give honest and useful reviews for readers for new and popular Dramione stories. Please check it out when you get the chance._

 _Also, please look at the section on The S &R Movement, which is a new movement that is helping Authors and Readers to get the most out of their interaction with each other. Whether you are a fellow writer, or one of my lovely readers, I encourage you to read up on this movement (you can find it on my blog), and how you can participate and show your support for the authors. It's an extremely important topic, so please do take a little time to look at the articles on how to leave constructive criticism, or encouraging comments, and why authors sometimes make the choices they do on how they receive their feedback. There's a Tumblr for the movement you can follow, also._

 _You'll notice that I've updated all my story summaries to show I support the movement, and that my personal Author preference is that I'm happy to receive reviews that include constructive criticism. So if you are so inclined, I'd love to hear from you!_

 _Keep your eye out on my page, also, as I should have two more short stories coming out this October 2017._

 **S &R Movement: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)**


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